THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


KROCHS  BOOKSTORE 

??  NORTH  MICHIGAN  AVE 

CHICAGO 


FLASHERS    MEAD 


GUY    AND    PAULINE 


FLASHERS  MEAD 


BY 

COMPTON   MACKENZIE 


AUTHOB  OF 

CARNIVAL 


HARPER   &   BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 
NEW    YORK    &    LONDON 


FLASHERS  MEAD 


Copyright.  1915,  by  Harper  &  Brother* 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  October.  1915 

M-P 


TO 

GENERAL 
SIR   IAN   HAMILTON 

G.C.B.,  D.S.O. 

AND      THE      GENERAL      STAFF      OF     THE 
MEDITERRANEAN  EXPEDITIONARY  FORCE 


8040484 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

I.       AUTUMN 


SEPTEMBER:  OCTOBER:  NOVEMBER 3 

II.  WINTER 

DECEMBER:  JANUARY:  FEBRUARY 55 

III.  SPRING 

MARCH:  APRIL:  MAY 99 

IV.  SUMMER 

JUNE:  JULY:  AUGUST 155 

V.  ANOTHER  AUTUMN 

SEPTEMBER:  OCTOBER:  NOVEMBER 205 

VI.  ANOTHER  WINTER 

DECEMBER:  JANUARY:  FEBRUARY 253 

VII.  ANOTHER  SPRING 

MARCH:  APRIL:  MAY 297 

VIII.  ANOTHER  SUMMER 

JUNE:  JULY:  AUGUST 339 

IX.  EPIGRAPH 

GUY:  PAULINE 371 


AUTUMN 


FLASHERS    MEAD 


SEPTEMBER 

'T'HE  slow  train  puffed  away  into  the  unadventurous 
1  country;  and  the  bees  buzzing  round  the  wine-dark 
dahlias  along  the  platform  were  once  again  audible.  The 
last  farewell  that  Guy  Hazlewood  flung  over  his  shoul- 
der to  a  parting  friend  was  more  casual  than  it  would 
have  been  had  he  not  at  the  same  moment  been  turning 
to  ask  the  solitary  porter  how  many  cases  of  books 
awaited  his  disposition.  They  were  very  heavy,  it 
seemed;  and  the  porter,  as  he  led  the  way  towards  the 
small  and  obscure  purgatory  through  which  every  pack- 
age for  Shipcot  must  pass,  declared  he  was  surprised  to 
hear  these  cases  contained  merely  books.  He  would  not 
go  so  far  as  to  suggest  that  hitherto  he  had  never  faced 
the  existence  of  books  in  such  quantity,  for  the  admission 
might  have  impugned  official  omniscience;  yet  there 
was  in  his  attitude  just  as  much  incredulity  mingled  with 
disdain  of  useless  learning  as  would  preserve  his  dignity 
without  jeopardizing  the  financial  compliment  his  services 
were  owed. 

"Ah,  well,"  he  decided,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  smooth 
over  Guy's  embarrassment  at  the  sight  of  these  large 
packing-cases  in  the  parcel-office.  "You'll  want  some- 
thing as  '11  keep  you  busy  this  winter — for  you'll  be  the 
gentleman  who've  come  to  live  down  Wychford  way?" 

3 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Guy  nodded. 

"And  Wychford  is  mortal  dead  in  winter.  Time  walks 
very  lame  there,  as  they  say.  And  all  these  books,  I  sup- 
pose, were  better  to  come  along  of  the  'bus  to-night?" 

Guy  looked  doubtful.  It  was  seeming  a  pity  to  waste 
this  afternoon  without  unpacking  a  single  case.  "The 
trap  .  .  ."  he  began. 

But  the  porter  interrupted  him  firmly;  he  did  not 
think  Mr.  Godbold  would  relish  the  notion  of  one  of  these 
packing-cases  in  his  new  trap. 

"I  could  give  you  a  hand  ..."  Guy  began  again. 

The  porter  stiffened  himself  against  the  slight  upon  his 
strength. 

"It's  not  the  heffbrt,"  he  asserted.  "Heffort  is  what 
I  must  look  for  every  day  of  my  life.  It's  Mr.  God- 
bold's  trap." 

The  discussion  was  given  another  turn  by  the  entrance 
of  Mr.  Godbold  himself.  He  was  not  at  all  concerned 
for  his  trap,  and  indeed  by  an  asseverated  indifference 
to  its  welfare  he  conveyed  the  impression  that,  new 
though  it  were,  it  was  so  much  firewood,  if  the  gentleman 
wanted  firewood.  No,  the  trap  did  not  matter,  but 
what  about  Mr.  Hazlewood's  knees  ? 

"Ah,  there  you  are,"  said  the  porter,  and  he  and  Mr. 
Godbold  both  stood  dumb  in  the  presence  of  the  finally 
insuperable. 

"I  suppose  it  must  be  the  'bus,"  said  Guy.  On  such 
a  sleepy  afternoon  he  could  argue  no  longer.  The  books 
must  be  unpacked  to-morrow;  and  the  word  lulled  like 
an  opiate  the  faint  irritation  of  his  disappointment.  The 
porter's  reiterated  altruism  was  rewarded  with  a  fee  so 
absurdly  in  excess  of  anything  he  had  done,  that  he  be- 
gan to  speak  of  a  possibility  if,  after  all,  the  smallest  case 
might  not  be  squeezed  .  .  .  but  Mr.  Godbold  flicked  the 
pony,  and  the  trap  rattled  up  the  station  road  at  a  pace 
quite  out  of  accord  with  the  warmth  of  the  afternoon. 
Presently  he  turned  to  his  fare: 

4 


AUTUMN 

"Mrs.  Godbold  said  to  me  only  this  morning,  she  said, 
'You  ought  to  have  had  a  luggage-flap  behind  and  that 
I  shall  always  say.'  And  she  was  right.  Women  is  often 
right,  what's  more,"  the  husband  postulated. 

Guy  nodded  absently;  he  was  thinking  about  the  books. 

"Very  often  right,"  Mr.  Godbold  murmured. 

Still  Guy  paid  no  attention. 

"Very  often,"  he  repeated,  but  as  Guy  would  neither 
contradict  nor  agree  with  him,  Mr.  Godbold  relapsed  into 
meditation  upon  the  justice  of  his  observation.  The  pony 
had  settled  down  to  his  wonted  pace  and  jogged  on 
through  the  golden  haze  of  fine  September  weather.  Soon 
the  village  of  Shipcot  was  left  behind,  and  before  them 
lay  the  long  road  winding  upward  over  the  wold  to  Wych- 
ford.  Guy  thought  of  the  friend  who  had  left  him  that 
afternoon  and  wished  that  Michael  Fane  were  still  with 
him  to  enjoy  this  illimitable  sweep  of  country.  He  had 
been  the  very  person  to  share  in  the  excitement  of  ar- 
ranging a  new  house.  Guy  could  not  remember  that  he 
had  ever  made  a  suggestion  for  which  he  had  not  been 
asked;  nor  could  he  call  to  mind  a  single  occasion  when 
his  appreciation  had  failed.  And  now  to-night,  when 
for  the  first  time  he  was  going  to  sleep  in  his  own  house, 
his  friend  was  gone.  There  had  been  no  hint  of  departure 
during  the  six  weeks  of  preparation  they  had  spent  to- 
gether at  the  Stag  Inn,  and  it  was  really  perverse  of 
Michael  to  rush  back  to  London  now.  Guy  jumped  down 
from  the  trap,  which  was  climbing  the  hill  very  slowly, 
and  stretched  his  long  legs.  He  was  rather  bored  by 
his  loneliness,  but  as  soon  as  he  had  stated  so  much  to 
himself,  he  was  shocked  at  the  disloyalty  to  his  ambi- 
tion. After  all,  he  reassured  himself,  he  was  not  going 
back  to  a  dull  inn-parlor;  to-night  he  was  going  to  sleep 
in  an  hermitage  for  the  right  to  enjoy  the  seclusion 
of  which  he  had  been  compelled  to  fight  very  hard.  It 
was  weak  to  imagine  he  was  lonely  already,  and  to  fortify 
himself  against  this  mood  he  pulled  out  of  his  pocket 

5 


FLASHERS   MEAD 

his  father's  last  letter  and  read  it  again  while  he  walked 
up  the  hill  behind  the  trap. 

Fox  HALL,  GALTON,  HANTS, 
September  loth. 

DEAR  GUY, — I  agree  with  some  of  what  you  say,  but  I  dis- 
agree with  a  good  deal  more,  and  I  am  entirely  opposed  to  your 
method  of  procedure,  which  is  to  put  it  very  mildly  rather 
casual.  Your  degree  was  not  so  good  as  it  ought  to  have  been, 
but  I  did  not  reproach  you,  because  in  the  Consular  Service 
you  had  chosen  a  career  which  did  not  call  specially  for  a  first. 
At  the  same  time  you  could,  if  you  had  worked,  have  got  a 
first  quite  easily.  Your  six  months  with  the  Macedonian  Relief 
people  seems  to  have  knocked  all  your  consular  ambitions  on 
the  head  rather  too  easily,  I  confess,  to  make  me  feel  very  happy 
about  your  future.  And  now  without  consulting  me  you  take 
a  house  in  the  country  for  the  purpose  of  writing  poetry!  You 
imply  in  answer  to  my  remonstrances  that  I  am  unable  to 
appreciate  the  "necessity"  for  your  step.  That  may  be,  but 
I  cannot  help  asking  where  you  would  be  now  if  I  at  your  age, 
instead  of  helping  my  father  with  his  school,  had  gone  off  to 
Oxfordshire  to  write  poetry.  Perhaps  I  had  ambitions  to  make 
a  name  for  myself  with  the  pen.  If  I  had,  I  quenched  them  in 
order  to  devote  myself  to  what  I  considered  my  duty.  I  do 
not  reproach  you  for  refusing  to  carry  on  the  school  at  Fox  Hall. 
Your  dear  mother's  last  request  was  that  I  should  not  urge 
you  to  be  a  schoolmaster,  unless  you  were  drawn  to  the  voca- 
tion. Her  wishes  I  have  respected,  and  I  repeat  that  I  am  not 
hurt  at  your  refusal.  At  the  same  time  I  cannot  encourage  what 
can  only  be  described  as  this  whim  of  yours  to  bury  yourself 
in  a  remote  village  where,  having  saddled  yourself  with  the 
responsibilities  of  a  house,  you  announce  your  intention  of 
living  by  poetry!  I  am  the  last  person  to  underestimate  the 
value  of  poetry,  but  as  a  livelihood  it  seems  to  me  as  little  to  be 
relied  upon  as  the  weather.  However,  you  are  of  age.  You 
have  £150  a  year  of  your  own.  You  are  with  the  exercise  of 
the  strictest  economy  independent.  And  this  brings  me  to  the 
point  of  your  last  letter  in  which  you  ask  me  to  supplement 
your  own  income  with  an  allowance  of  £150  a  year  from  me. 
This  inclination  to  depend  upon  your  father  is  not  what  I  con- 

6 


AUTUMN 

ceive  to  be  the  artist's  spirit  of  independence.  This  overdraw- 
ing upon  your  achievement  fills  me  with  dismay  for  the  future. 
However,  since  I  do  not  wish  you  to  begin  hampered  by  debt 
and  as  you  assure  me  that  you  have  spent  all  your  own  money 
on  this  idiotic  house,  I  will  give  you  £150,  to  be  paid  in  quarterly 
instalments  of  £37  los.  as  from  the  2ist  of  this  month  for  one 
year.  Furthermore,  at  the  end  of  next  year  if  you  find  that 
poetry  is  less  profitable  than  even  you  expect,  I  will  offer  you 
a  place  at  Fox  Hall,  thereby  securing  for  you  the  certainty  of 
a  life  moderately  free  from  financial  worries.  After  all,  even  a 
schoolmaster  has  some  spare  time,  and  I  dare  say  our  greatest 
poets  did  much  of  their  best  work  in  their  spare  time.  The 
idea  of  writing  poetry  all  day  and  every  day  appeals  to  me  as 
enervating  and  ostentatious. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  HAZLEWOOD. 

Guy  stood  still  when  he  had  finished  the  letter,  and 
execrated  mutely  the  damnable  dependence  that  com- 
pelled him  to  accept  gratefully  and  humbly  this  gift  of 
£150.  Yet  with  no  money  of  his  own  coming  in  till 
December,  with  actually  a  housekeeper  on  her  way  from 
Cardiff  and  his  house  already  furnished,  he  must  accept 
the  offer.  In  a  year's  time  he  would  have  proved  the 
reasonableness  of  his  request;  and  he  began  to  compose 
a  scene  between  them,  in  which  his  father  would  almost 
on  bended  knees  beg  him  to  accept  an  allowance  of  £300 
a  year  in  consideration  of  the  magnificent  proof  he  had 
afforded  to  the  world  of  being  in  the  direct  line  of  English 
poets. 

"And  I  mustn't  forget  to  send  him  a  sonnet  on  his 
birthday,"  said  Guy  to  himself. 

This  notion  restored  his  dignity,  and  he  hurried  on  to 
overtake  the  trap  which  was  waiting  on  the  brow  of  the 
hill. 

"You  were  saying  something  about  women  being 
right,"  he  reminded  Mr.  Godbold,  as  he  sat  down  again 
beside  him.  "Has  it  ever  struck  you  that  fathers  are 
nearly  always  wrong?" 

7 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"That  wouldn't  do  for  me  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Godbold, 
shaking  his  head.  "You  see  I'm  the  father  of  nine,  and 
if  I  wasn't  always  right,  sir,  I  shouldn't  be  no  better 
than  a  bull  in  a  china-shop  where  I  live.  I've  got  to  be 
right,  Mr.  Hazlewood." 

"I  suppose  that's  what  the  Pope  felt,"  Guy  murmured. 

"Now  do  you  reckon  this  here  Pope  they  speak  of 
really  exists  in  a  manner  of  speaking?"  Mr.  Godbold 
asked,  as  the  trap  bowled  along  the  level  stretch  of  up- 
land road.  "You  know  there's  some  of  these  narrow- 
minded  mortals  at  Wychford  as  will  have  it  that  Mr. 
Grey,  our  parson,  is  in  with  the  Pope,  and  I  said  to  one  or 
two  of  them  the  other  night  while  we  were  arguing  in  the 
post-office,  I  said,  'Have  any  of  you  wise  men  of  Gotham 
ever  seen  this  Pope  as  you're  so  knowing  about?'" 

"And  had  they?"  asked  Guy,  encouragingly. 

"Not  one  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Godbold.  "And  I  thought 
to  myself  as  I  was  walking  up  home,  I  thought  now  what 
if  there  wasn't  no  such  thing  as  a  Pope  any  more  than 
there's  women  with  fish-tails  and  all  this  rubbish  you 
read  of  in  books.  If  you  ask  my  opinion  of  books,  Mr. 
Hazlewood,  I  tell  you  that  I  think  books  is  as  bad  for 
some  people  as  wireworms  is  for  carnations.  They  seem 
to  regular  eat  into  them." 

Guy  laughed.  Misgivings  about  the  wisdom  of  his 
choice  vanished,  and  he  was  being  conscious  of  a  very 
intimate  pleasure  in  thus  driving  back  to  Wychford  from 
the  station.  The  country  tossed  for  miles  to  right  and 
left  in  great  stretches  of  pasturage,  and  when  Mr.  God- 
bold  pulled  up  for  a  moment  to  look  at  a  trace,  the  air, 
brilliantly  dusted  with  autumnal  gold,  seemed  to  endow 
him  with  the  richness  of  its  silence;  along  the  sparse  hedge- 
row chicory  flowers  burned  with  the  pale  intense  blue  of 
the  September  sky  above,  and  Guy  felt  like  them,  worship- 
ful of  the  cloudless  scene.  The  road  ran  along  the  up- 
land for  half  a  mile  before  it  dipped  suddenly  down  into 
the  valley  of  the  Greenrush,  from  which  the  spire  of 


AUTUMN 

Wychford  church  came  delicately  up  into  the  air,  like  a 
coil  of  smoke  ascending  from  the  opalescent  corona  that 
hung  over  the  small  town  clustered  against  the  farther 
hillside.  Down  in  that  valley  close  to  the  church  was 
Flashers  Mead,  and  Guy  watched  eagerly  for  the  first 
sight  of  his  long,  low  house.  Already  the  sparkle  of  the 
more  distant  curves  of  the  Greenrush  was  visible;  but 
Flashers  Mead  was  still  hidden  by  the  slope  of  the  bank. 
Presently  this  broke  away  to  a  ragged  hedge,  and  the 
house  displayed  itself  as  much  an  integral  part  of  the 
landscape  as  an  outcrop  of  stone. 

"Tasty  little  place,"  commented  Mr.  Godbold  while  the 
trap  jolted  cautiously  down  the  last  twist  of  the  hilly 
road.  "But  I  reckon  old  Burrows  was  glad  to  let  it. 
You're  young,  though,  and  I  dare  say  you  won't  mind  being 
flooded  out  in  winter.  Two  years  ago  Burrows's  son's  wife's 
nephew  was  floating  paper  boats  in  the  front  hall.  But 
you're  young,  and  I  dare  say  you'll  enjoy  it." 

The  pony  swept  round  the  corner  and  pulled  up  with 
a  jerk  at  the  wooden  gateway  in  the  gray  wall  overhung 
by  lime-trees  that  concealed  from  the  highroad  the  moist 
fields  and  garden  of  Flashers  Mead. 

"I'm  sleeping  here  to-night,  you  know,  for  the  first 
time,"  said  Guy.  He  had  tried  all  the  way  back  not  to 
make  this  announcement,  but  the  sight  of  his  own  gate- 
way destroyed  his  reserve. 

"Well,  you'll  have  a  fine  night,  that's  one  good  job," 
Mr.  Godbold  predicted. 

"And  the  moon  only  just  past  the  full,"  said  Guy. 

"That's  right,"  Mr.  Godbold  agreed;  and  the  tenant 
passed  through  the  gateway  into  the  garden,  where  every 
path  had  its  own  melody  of  running  water.  He  examined 
with  proprietary  solicitude  the  espaliers  of  apple-trees,  and 
admired  for  the  twentieth  time  the  pledge  they  offered 
by  their  fantastic  forms  of  his  garden's  antiquity.  He 
pinched  several  pippins  that  seemed  ripe,  but  they  were 
still  hard;  and  he  could  find  nothing  over  which  to  exert 
2  9 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

his  lordship  until  he  saw  by  the  edge  of  the  path  a  piece 
of  groundsel.  Having  solemnly  exterminated  the  weed, 
Guy  felt  that  the  garden  must  henceforth  recognize  him 
as  master,  and  he  walked  on  through  a  mass  of  dropsical 
cabbages  and  early  kale  until  he  came  face  to  face  with 
the  house,  the  sudden  view  of  which  like  this  never  failed 
to  give  him  a  peculiar  pleasure.  The  tangled  garden, 
long  and  narrow,  was  bounded  on  the  right,  as  one  en- 
tered, by  the  Greenrush,  over  which  hung  a  thicket  of 
yews  that  completely  shut  out  the  first  straggling  houses 
of  Wychford.  On  the  left  the  massed  espaliers  ended 
abruptly  in  a  large  water-meadow  reaching  to  the  foot 
of  the  hill  along  which  the  highroad  climbed  in  a  slow 
diagonal.  By  the  corner  of  the  house  the  garden  had 
narrowed  to  the  apex  of  a  thin  triangle,  so  that  the  win- 
dows looked  out  over  the  water-meadow  and,  beyond,  up 
the  wide  valley  of  the  Greenrush  to  where  the  mighty 
western  sky  rested  on  rounded  hills.  At  this  apex  the 
Greenrush  flung  a  tributary  stream  to  wash  the  back  of 
the  house  and  one  side  of  the  orchard,  whence  it  wound 
in  extravagant  curves  towards  the  easterly  valley.  The 
main  branch,  damned  up  to  form  a  deep  and  sluggish 
mill-stream,  flowed  straight  on,  dividing  Guy's  domain 
from  the  churchyard.  At  the  end  of  the  orchard  on  this 
side  was  a  lock-gate  through  which  a  certain  amount  of 
water  continuously  escaped  from  the  mill-stream,  enough, 
indeed,  to  make  the  orchard  an  island,  as  it  trickled  in 
diamonded  shallows  to  reinforce  the  idle  tributary.  Some- 
where in  the  farther  depths  of  the  eastern  valley  all 
vagrant  waters  were  united,  and  somewhere  still  more 
remote  they  came  to  a  confluence  with  their  father  the 
Thames. 

Guy  sat  upon  the  parapet  of  the  well  under  the  shade 
of  a  sycamore-tree  and  regarded  with  admiration  and 
satisfaction  the  exterior  of  his  house.  He  looked  at  the 
semicircular  porch  of  stone  over  the  front  door  and  vene- 
rated the  supporting  cherubs  who  with  puffed-out  cheeks 

10 


AUTUMN 

had  blown  defiance  at  wind  and  rain  since  the  days  of 
Elizabeth.  He  counted  the  nine  windows,  five  above  and 
four  below,  populating  with  the  shapes  of  many  friends 
the  rooms  they  lightened.  He  looked  at  the  steep  roof  of 
gray-stone  tiles  rich  with  the  warm  golden  green  of  mossy 
patterns.  He  looked  at  the  four  pear-trees  against  the 
walls  of  the  house  barren  now  for  many  years.  He  looked 
at  himself  in  silhouette  against  the  silver  sky  of  the  well- 
water;  and  then  he  went  indoors. 

The  big  stone-paved  hall  was  very  cool,  and  the  sound 
of  the  stream  at  the  back  came  babbling  through  lattices 
open  to  the  light  of  a  green  world.  Guy  could  not  make 
up  his  mind  whether  the  inside  of  the  house  smelled  very 
dry  or  very  damp,  for  there  clung  about  it  that  odor  pe- 
culiar to  rustic  age,  which  may  be  found  equally  in  dry 
old  barns  and  in  damp  potting-sheds.  He  wished  he 
could  furnish  the  hall  worthily.  At  present  it  contained 
only  a  high-back  chair,  an  alleged  contemporary  of  Crom- 
well, which  was  doddering  beside  the  hooded  fireplace;  a 
warming-pan;  and  an  oak  chest  which  remained  a  chest 
only  so  long  as  nobody  either  sat  upon  it  or  lifted  the  lid. 
There  was  also  a  grandfather-clock  which  had  suffered 
an  abrupt  resurrection  of  four  minutes'  duration  when  it 
was  recently  lifted  out  of  the  furniture-van,  but  had  now 
relapsed  into  the  silence  of  years.  Leading  out  of  the  hall 
was  a  small,  empty  room  which  had  been  dedicated  to 
the  possession  of  his  friend  Michael  Fane;  together  they 
had  planned  to  paper  it  with  gold  and  paint  the  ceiling 
black.  Michael,  however,  had  still  another  year  at  Ox- 
ford, and  the  room  with  an  obelisk  of  lining-paper  stand- 
ing upright  on  the  bare  floor  was  now  a  little  desolate. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  hall  was  the  dining-room,  which 
Guy,  by  taxing  his  resources,  had  managed  to  furnish 
very  successfully.  It  was  a  square  room  painted  emerald- 
green  above  the  white  wainscot.  Two  inset  cupboards 
were  filled  with  glass  and  china:  there  were  four  Chip- 
pendale chairs  and  an  oval  Sheraton  table,  curtains  of 

ii 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

purple  silk,  some  old  English  water-colors,  and  two  candle- 
sticks of  Sheffield  plate.  Beyond  the  dining-room  was  the 
kitchen,  the  corridor  to  which  was  endowed  with  a  swing- 
ing baize  door  considered  by  the  landlord  to  be  the  finest 
feature  of  the  house.  The  problem  of  equipping  the 
kitchen  had  seemed  insoluble  until  Guy  heard  of  a  sale 
in  the  neighborhood.  He  had  bicycled  over  to  this  and 
bought  the  contents  of  the  large  kitchen  at  auction.  The 
result  was  that  the  dresser  encroached  upon  the  table, 
that  the  table  had  one  leg  in  the  fender,  and  that  a  row 
of  graduated  dish-covers,  the  largest  of  which  would 
have  sheltered  two  turkeys,  occupied  whatever  space  was 
left.  All  that  remained  of  Guy's  own  money  had  been 
invested  in  his  kitchen,  and  he  accounted  for  the  large 
size  of  everything  by  the  fact  of  the  auction's  having  been 
held  in  the  open  air,  where  everything  had  looked  so  much 
smaller.  Now,  as  he  contemplated  dubiously  the  result, 
he  wondered  what  Miss  Peasey  would  say  to  it.  She  and 
the  books  would  arrive  together  at  half  past  nine  to-night. 
He  hoped  his  unknown  housekeeper  would  not  be  irri- 
tated by  these  dish-covers,  and  as  a  precautionary  meas- 
ure he  unhooked  the  largest,  carried  it  up-stairs,  and  de- 
posited it  on  the  floor  of  an  unfurnished  bedroom.  The 
staircase  ran  steep  and  straight  up  from  the  hall  into  a 
long  corridor  with  more  casements  opening  on  the  orchard 
behind.  The  bedroom  at  one  end  was  dedicated  to  the 
hope  of  Michael  Fane's  occupation  and  was  always  re- 
ferred to  in  letters  as  his :  "By  the  way  I  put  the  largest  dish- 
cover  in  your  bedroom''  The  next  two  bedrooms  were  also 
empty  and  belonged  in  spirit  to  the  friends  with  whom 
Guy  had  lived  during  his  last  year  at  Oxford.  The  fourth 
was  his  own,  very  simply  and  sparsely  furnished  in  com- 
parison with  the  bedroom  up  in  the  roof  which  was  in- 
tended for  Miss  Peasey.  The  preparation  of  that  for  an 
elderly  unmarried  woman  had  involved  a  certain  voluptu- 
ousness of  rep  and  fumed  oak  and  heavily  decorated  china, 
the  fruit  of  the  second-best  bedroom  in  the  house  of  the 

12 


AUTUMN 

dish-covers.  As  Guy  went  up  the  crooked  stairs  and 
knocked  his  head  on  three  successive  beams,  he  hoped 
Miss  Peasey  would  not  be  as  disproportionately  large  as 
the  kitchen  dresser.  Her  handwriting  had  been  spidery 
enough,  and  he  pictured  her  hopefully  as  small  and  wizened. 
Miss  Peasey's  bower  with  the  big  dormer  window  survey- 
ing the  tree-tops  of  the  orchard  was  certainly  a  success, 
and  Guy  saw  that  Michael  had  with  happy  intuition 
of  female  aspiration  hung  on  the  wall  opposite  her  bed 
a  large  steel-engraving  of  Dore's  Martyrs,  which  had  been 
included  with  two  hammocks  and  a  fishing-rod  in  one  of 
the  odd  lots  lightly  bid  for  at  the  auction.  There  did 
not  seem  anything  else  she  could  want;  so,  having  killed 
a  bluebottle  with  a  tartan  pincushion,  he  came  down- 
stairs. 

Guy  had  left  his  own  room  to  the  last,  partly  because 
he  regretted  so  much  the  delay  in  the  arrival  of  those 
books  and  partly  because,  however  inadequately  equipped 
was  the  rest  of  the  house,  this  room  was  always  the  final 
justification  of  his  tenancy.  It  was  a  larger  room  than 
any  of  the  others,  for  the  corridor  did  not  cut  off  its  share 
of  the  back.  It  possessed,  in  addition  to  the  usual  window 
looking  out  over  the  western  side  of  the  valley,  a  very 
large  bay  which  hung  right  over  the  stream,  with  a  view 
of  the  orchard,  of  the  church  steeple,  of  the  water-meadows 
beyond,  and  of  the  wold  rolling  across  the  horizon.  This 
morning  Michael  and  he  had  pushed  the  furniture  into 
place,  had  set  in  order  the  great  wicker  chairs  and  nailed 
against  the  wall  the  frames  of  green  canvas.  The  floor 
was  covered  with  a  sweet-smelling  mat  of  Abingdon 
rushes;  and  the  curtains  of  his  old  rooms  in  Balliol  were 
hung  in  place,  dim  green  curtains  sown  with  golden  fleurs- 
de-lys.  The  ivory  image  of  an  emaciated  saint  standing 
on  the  mantelshelf  between  candlesticks  of  old  wrought 
iron  was  probably  a  Spanish  Virgin,  but  Guy  preferred  to 
say  she  was  Saint  Rose  of  Lima  because  "0  Rose  of  Lima" 
seemed  a  wonderful  apostrophe  to  begin  a  poem.  Noth- 

13 


FLASHERS   MEAD 

ing  indeed  remained  for  the  room's  perfection  but  to  fill 
the  new  bookshelves  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace.  Why 
had  he  not  hired  a  cart  in  Shipcot?  They  would  have 
been  here  by  now,  and  he  would  actually  have  been  able 
to  begin  work  to-night,  setting  thus  a  noble  period  to 
these  last  six  weeks  of  preparation. 

Guy  dragged  a  chair  into  the  bay  window  and,  balanc- 
ing his  long  legs  on  the  sill,  he  made  numerous  calculations 
in  which  Miss  Peasey's  wages,  the  weekly  bills  for  food, 
and  the  number  of  times  he  would  have  to  go  up  to  Lon- 
don were  set  against  £150  a  year.  When  he  woke  up, 
the  lime-trees  that  bordered  the  highroad  had  flung  their 
shadows  half-way  across  the  meadow,  and  the  air  was  a 
fume  of  golden  gnats  against  the  dipping  sun.  Within 
ten  minutes  the  sun  vanished,  and  the  mists  began  to 
rise.  Guy,  feeling  rather  chilly  and  ashamed  of  himself 
for  falling  asleep,  rose  hurriedly  and  went  up  into  the 
town.  He  interviewed  the  driver  of  the  omnibus  and 
told  him  to  look  out  for  his  books,  and  as  an  afterthought 
he  mentioned  the  arrival  of  Miss  Peasey.  He  wished 
now  he  had  written  and  told  his  housekeeper  to  spend  the 
night  in  Oxford;  and  he  hoped  she  would  not  be  prejudiced 
against  Plashers  Mead  by  a  five-mile  drive  in  a  cold 
omnibus  after  her  tiring  journey  from  Cardiff.  He 
dawdled  about  the  steep  village  street  for  a  while,  gossiping 
with  tradesmen  at  their  doors  and  watching  the  warmth 
fade  out  of  the  gray  houses  in  the  falling  dusk.  Then  he 
went  to  eat  his  last  meal  in  the  Stag  Inn. 

After  supper  Guy  returned  to  Plashers  Mead,  wander- 
ing round  the  house,  dropping  a  great  deal  of  candle- 
grease  everywhere,  and  working  himself  up  into  a  state 
of  anxiety  over  Miss  Peasey's  advent.  It  would  be  ter- 
rible if  she  demanded  her  fare  back  to  Wales  the  moment 
she  arrived;  and  to  propitiate  her  he  put  the  best  lamp 
in  the  kitchen,  whence  (as  with  such  illumination  it  looked 
more  than  ever  protuberant)  he  took  another  dish-cover 
up  to  Michael's  bedroom.  Since  it  was  still  but  a  few 

H 


AUTUMN 

minutes  after  eight  and  the  omnibus  would  not  come  for 
another  hour  and  a  half,  he  lit  all  the  wax  candles  in  his 
own  room  and  wondered  what  to  do.  The  tall  shadows 
wavering  in  the  draught  were  seeming  cold  and  uncom- 
fortable without  a  fire,  so  he  restlessly  threw  back  the 
curtains  of  the  bay  window  to  watch  the  rising  of  the 
moon.  At  that  instant  her  rim  appeared  above  the  black 
hills,  and  presently  a  great  moon  of  dislustered  gold  swam 
along  the  edge  of  the  earth.  Although  she  appeared  to 
shed  no  light,  the  valley  responded  to  her  presence,  and 
Guy  was  lured  from  his  room  to  walk  for  a  while  in  the 
dews. 

Out  in  the  orchard  a  heavy  mist  wrapped  him  in  wet 
folds  of  silver;  yet  overhead  there  was  clear  starlight, 
and  he  could  watch  the  slow  burnishing  of  the  moon's 
face  in  her  voyage  up  the  sky.  It  was  a  queer  country 
in  which  he  found  himself,  where  all  the  tree-tops  seemed 
to  be  floating  away  from  invisible  trunks,  and  where  for 
a  while  no  sound  was  audible  but  his  own  footsteps  making 
a  music  almost  of  violins  in  the  saturated  grass.  The 
moon  wrought  upon  the  vapors  a  shifting  damascene;  and 
far  behind,  as  it  seemed,  a  rufous  stain  showed  where  the 
candles  in  his  room  were  still  alight.  Gradually  a  variety 
of  sounds  began  to  play  upon  the  silence.  He  could  hear 
the  dry  squeak  of  a  bat  and  cows  munching  in  the  mea- 
dows on  the  other  side  of  the  stream.  The  stream  itself 
babbled  and  was  still,  babbled  and  was  still;  while  along 
the  bank  voles  were  taking  the  water  with  splashes  that 
went  up  and  down  a  scale  like  the  deep  notes  of  a  dulcimer. 
Far  off,  an  owl  hooted,  an  otter  barked;  and  then  as  he 
crossed  the  middle  of  the  orchard  he  was  hearing  nothing 
but  apples  fall  with  solemn  thud,  until  the  noise  of  the 
lock-gate  swallowed  all  lighter  sounds.  Here  the  mist  had 
temporarily  dissolved,  and  in  the  moonlight  he  could  see 
water  gushing  forth  like  an  arch  of  lace  and  the  long 
bramble-sprays  combing  the  shallows  below.  Soon  the 
orchard  was  left  behind  and  he  was  in  the  mist  of  a  wide 

'5 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

meadow,  where  all  was  silent  again  except  for  the  faint 
sobbing  of  the  grass  to  his  footsteps.  He  walked  straight 
into  the  moon's  face,  stumbling  from  time  to  time  over 
molehills  with  an  eery  fragrance  of  fresh-turned  soil,  and 
wishing  he  could  ever  say  in  verse  a  little  of  the  magic 
this  autumnal  night  was  shedding  upon  his  fancy. 

"By  gad!  if  I  can't  write  here,  I  ought  to  be  shot,"  he 
declared. 

The  church  clock  struck  the  half-hour  as  appositely  as 
if  his  own  father  had  said  something  about  the  need  for 
hurrying  up  and  showing  what  he  could  do. 

"Ah,  but  I'm  not  going  to  be  hurried,"  said  Guy,  aloud. 
And  since  the  clock  could  not  answer  him  again,  it  was 
as  good  as  having  the  best  of  an  argument. 

Guy  walked  on,  and  after  a  while  could  hear  once  more 
the  purling  of  the  stream.  He  thought  there  was  some- 
thing strangely  human  about  this  river  in  the  way  it 
wandered  so  careless  of  direction.  When  he  had  left 
these  banks,  they  had  been  going  away  from  him:  now 
here  they  were  coming  back  like  himself  towards  the  moon, 
so  that  presently  he  was  able  without  changing  his  course 
to  walk  under  their  border  of  willows.  The  mist  had 
drifted  away  from  the  stream,  leaving  the  spires  of  loose- 
strife plainly  visible,  and  more  dimly  on  the  other  side  the 
forms  of  huge  cattle  at  pasture.  There  was,  too,  a  smell  of 
meadowsweet  softening  with  a  summer  languor  the  sharp 
September  night.  The  willows  gave  way  to  overhanging 
thickets  of  hawthorn,  as  the  river  suddenly  swept  round 
to  make  a  noose  that  was  completed  but  a  few  yards 
ahead  of  where  he  was  standing.  He  could  not  see  on 
account  of  the  bushes  the  size  of  the  peninsula  so  formed, 
and  when  suddenly  he  heard  from  the  depths  a  sound  of 
laughter,  so  full  was  his  brain  of  moonshine  that  if  he  had 
come  face  to  face  with  a  legendary  queen  of  fairies,  he 
would  hardly  have  been  surprised.  It  was  with  the  delib- 
erate encouragement  of  a  vision  surpassing  all  the  fan- 
tasies of  moon  and  mist  that  Guy  stopped;  and,  indeed, 

16 


AUTUMN 

on  a  sensuous  impulse  to  pamper  his  imagination  with 
an  unsolved  mystery  he  had  almost  turned  round  to  go 
back.  Curiosity,  however,  was  too  strong;  for,  as  he 
paused  irresolute,  the  fairy  mirth  tinkling  again  from  the 
recesses  of  that  bewitched  inclosure  died  away  upon  the 
murmur  of  a  conversation,  and  he  could  not  leave  any 
longer  inviolate  that  screen  of  hawthorns. 

In  the  apogee  of  the  river's  noose  two  girls,  clearly 
seen  against  the  silver  glooms  beyond,  were  bending  over 
a  basket.  Their  heads  were  close  together,  and  it  was 
not  until  Guy  was  almost  on  top  of  them  that  he  realized 
how  impertinent  his  intrusion  might  seem.  He  drew 
back,  blushing,  just  as  one  of  the  girls  became  aware  of 
his  presence  and  jumped  up  with  an  "oh"  that  floated 
away  from  her  as  lightly  as  a  moth  upon  the  moonshine. 
Her  sister  (Guy  decided  at  once  they  were  sisters)  jumped 
up  also  and,  luckily  for  him,  since  it  offered  the  oppor- 
tunity of  a  natural  apology,  overturned  the  basket.  For 
a  moment  the  three  of  them  gazed  at  one  another  over 
the  mushrooms  that  were  tumbled  upon  the  grass  to  be 
an  elfin  city  of  the  East,  so  white  and  cold  were  their 
cupolas  under  the  moon. 

"Can't  I  help  to  pick  them  up?"  Guy  asked,  wonder- 
ing to  himself  why  on  this  night  of  nights  that  was  the 
real  beginning  of  Flashers  Mead  he  should  be  blessed  by 
this  fortunate  encounter.  The  two  girls  were  wearing 
big  white  coats  of  some  rough  tweed  or  frieze  on  which 
the  mist  lay  like  gossamer;  and,  as  neither  of  them  had 
a  hat,  Guy  could  see  that  one  was  very  dark  and  the 
other  fair. 

"We  wondered  who  you  were,"  said  the  dark  one. 

"I  live  at  Flashers  Mead,"  said  Guy. 

"I  know;   I've  seen  you  often,"  she  answered. 

"And  Father  says  every  day,  'My  dears,  I  really  must 
call  upon  that  young  man.'" 

It  was  the  fair  one  who  spoke,  and  Guy  recognized 
that  it  was  her  laughter  he  had  first  heard. 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"My  other  sister  is  somewhere  close  by,"  said  the  dark 
one. 

Guy  was  kneeling  down  to  gather  up  the  mushrooms, 
and  he  looked  round  to  see  another  white  figure  coming 
towards  them. 

"Oh,  Margaret,  do  let's  introduce  him  to  Monica.  It 
will  be  such  fun,"  cried  the  fair  sister. 

Guy  saw  that  Margaret  was  shaking  her  head,  but 
nevertheless  when  the  third  sister  came  near  enough  she 
did  introduce  him.  Monica  was  more  like  Margaret,  but 
much  fairer  than  the  first  fair  sister;  and  with  her  reserve 
and  her  pale-gold  hair  she  seemed,  as  she  greeted  him, 
to  be  indeed  a  wraith  of  the  moon. 

"Shall  I  carry  the  mushrooms  back  for  you?"  Guy 
offered. 

"Oh  no,  thanks,"  said  Monica,  quickly.  "The  Rec- 
tory is  quite  out  of  your  way." 

He  felt  the  implication  of  an  eldest  sister's  disapproval, 
and  not  wishing  to  spoil  the  omens  of  romance,  he  left  the 
three  sisters  by  the  banks  of  the  Greenrush  and  was 
soon  on  his  way  home  through  the  webs  of  mist. 

How  extraordinary  that  he  and  Michael  should  have 
spent  six  weeks  at  Wychford  without  realizing  that  the 
Rector  had  three  such  daughters.  Godbold  had  gossiped 
about  him  only  this  afternoon,  reporting  that  he  was  held 
by  some  of  his  parishioners  to  be  in  with  the  Pope:  they 
might  more  justly  suspect  him  of  being  in  with  Titania. 
Monica,  Margaret  ...  he  had  not  heard  the  name  of  the 
third.  Monica  had  seemed  a  little  frigid,  but  Margaret 
and  .  .  .  really  when  the  omnibus  arrived  he  must  find 
out  the  name  of  the  Rector's  third  daughter,  of  that  one 
so  obviously  the  youngest,  with  her  light-brown  hair  and 
her  laugh  of  which  even  now,  as  he  paused,  he  fancied  he 
could  still  hear  the  melodious  echo.  Monica,  Margaret, 
and  .  .  .  Rose,  perhaps,  for  there  had  been  something  of  a 
dewy  eglantine  about  her.  Surely  that  was  indeed  the 
echo  of  their  voices;  but,  as  upon  distance  the  wayward 

J8 


AUTUMN 

sound  eluded  him,  the  belfry  clock  with  whir  and  buzz 
and  groan  made  preparation  to  strike  the  hour.  Nine 
strokes  boomed,  leaving  behind  them  a  stillness  absolute. 
The  poet  thought  of  time  before  him,  of  the  three  sisters 
by  the  river,  of  fame  to  come,  and  of  his  own  fortune  in 
finding  Flashers  Mead.  Four  months  ago  he  had  been 
in  Macedonia,  full  of  pro-consular  romance,  and  now  he 
was  in  England  with  a  much  keener  sense  of  every  mo- 
ment's potentiality  than  he  had  ever  known  in  the  dreams 
of  Oriental  dominion.  This  sublunary  adventure  indicated 
how  great  a  richness  of  pastoral  life  lay  behind  the  slum- 
ber of  a  forgotten  town;  and  it  was  seeming  more  than 
ever  a  pity  Michael  had  not  waited  until  to-night,  so 
that  he  also  might  have  met  Monica  and  Margaret  and 
that  smallest  innominate  sister  with  the  light-brown  hair. 
Guy  could  not  help  arranging  with  himself  for  his  friend 
to  fall  in  love  with  one  of  them;  and  since  he  at  once 
allotted  Monica  to  Michael,  he  knew  that  he  himself  pre- 
ferred one  of  the  others.  But  which?  Oh,  it  was  ridic- 
ulous to  ask  such  questions  after  seeing  three  girls  for  three 
minutes  of  moonlight.  Perhaps  it  really  had  been  sor- 
cery, and  in  the  morning,  when  he  met  them  in  Wychford 
High  Street,  they  would  appear  dull  and  ordinary.  They 
could  not  be  so  beautiful  as  he  thought  they  were,  he 
decided,  since  if  they  were  he  must  have  heard  of  their 
beauty.  Nevertheless,  it  was  in  a  mood  of  almost  elated 
self-congratulation  that  Guy  found  himself  hurrying 
through  the  orchard  towards  the  candle-light  of  his 
room. 

The  arrival  of  Miss  Peasey,  now  that  it  was  upon  him, 
banished  everything  else;  and  instead  of  dreaming  de- 
liciously  of  that  encounter  in  the  water-meadows,  he  stood 
meditating  on  the  failure  of  the  kitchen.  As  he  regarded 
the  enormous  dresser,  the  table  trampling  upon  the  fen- 
der, the  seven  dish-covers  mocking  his  poor  crockery, 
Guy  had  little  hope  that  Miss  Peasey  would  stay  a  week; 
and  then  suddenly,  worse  than  any  failure  of  equipment, 

19 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

he  remembered  that  she  might  be  hungry.  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  A  quarter  past  nine.  Of  course  she  would 
be  hungry.  She  probably  had  eaten  nothing  but  a  banana 
S'.nce  breakfast  in  Cardiff.  Guy  rushed  out  and  surprised 
the  landlord  of  the  Stag  by  begging  him  to  send  the 
hostler  down  at  once  with  cold  beef  and  stout  and  cheese. 

"There's  the  'bus,"  he  cried.  "Don't  forget.  At  once. 
My  new  housekeeper.  Long  journey.  And  salad.  For- 
got she'd  be  hungry.  Salt  and  mustard.  I've  got  plates." 

The  omnibus  went  rumbling  past,  and  Guy  followed  at 
a  jog-trot  down  the  street,  saw  it  cross  the  bridge,  and, 
making  a  spurt,  caught  it  up  just  as  a  woman  alighted  by 
the  gate  of  Flashers  Mead. 

"Ah,  Miss  Peasey,"  said  Guy,  breathlessly.  "I  went 
up  the  street  to  see  if  the  'bus  was  coming.  Have  you 
had  a  comfortable  journey?" 

"Mr.  Hazlewood?"  asked  the  new  housekeeper,  blink- 
ing at  him. 

The  guard  of  the  omnibus  at  this  moment  informed  Guy 
that  he  had  some  cases  for  Flashers  Mead. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Hazlewood,  then?"  asked  Miss  Peasey, 
turning  sharply. 

Over  her  shoulder  Guy  saw  that  the  guard  was  appar- 
ently punching  the  side  of  his  head,  and  he  said,  more 
loudly: 

"I'm  Mr.  Hazlewood." 

"I  thought  you  were.  I'm  a  little  bit  deaf  after  travel- 
ing, so  you'll  kindly  speak  slightly  above  the  usual,  Mr. 
Hazlewood." 

"I  hope  you've  had  a  comfortable  journey,"  Guy 
shouted. 

"Oh  yes,  I  think  I  shall,"  she  said  with  what  Guy 
fancied  was  meant  to  be  an  encouraging  smile.  "I  hope 
you  haven't  lost  any  of  my  parcels,  young  man,"  she 
continued,  with  a  severe  glance  at  the  guard. 

"Four  and  a  string-bag.  Is  that  right,  mum?"  he  bel- 
lowed. "She's  as  deaf  as  an  adder,  Mr.  Hazlewood,"  he 

20 


AUTUMN 

explained,  confidentially.  "We  had  a  regular  time  get- 
ting of  her  into  the  'bus  before  we  found  out  she  couldn't 
hear  what  was  being  said  to  her.  Oh,  very  obstinate  she 
was." 

"This  is  the  garden,"  Guy  shouted,  as  they  passed  in 
through  the  gate. 

"Yes,  I  dare  say,"  Miss  Peasey  replied,  ambiguously. 

Guy  wondered  how  she  would  ever  be  got  up-stairs  to 
her  room. 

"This  is  the  hall,"  he  shouted.  "Rather  unfurnished 
I'm  afraid." 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  quite  used  to  the  country,"  said  Miss 
Peasey. 

Guy  was  now  in  a  state  of  nervous  indecision.  Just  as 
he  was  going  to  shout  to  Miss  Peasey  that  the  kitchen  was 
through  the  baize  door  the  hostler  from  the  Stag  came 
up  to  know  whether  mutton  would  do  instead  of  beef, 
and  just  as  he  said  pork  would  be  better  than  nothing 
the  guard  arrived  with  Miss  Peasey's  tin  box  and  wanted 
to  know  where  he  should  put  it.  The  hall  seemed  to  be 
thronged  with  people. 

"You'd  like  your  boxes  up-stairs,  wouldn't  you?"  he 
shouted  to  the  housekeeper. 

"Oh,  do  you  want  to  come  up-stairs?"  she  said,  cheer- 
fully. 

"No,  your  boxes.     The  kitchen's  in  here." 

He  really  hustled  her  into  the  kitchen  and,  having  got 
her  at  last  in  a  well-lighted  room,  he  begged  her  to  sit 
down  and  expect  her  supper.  By  this  time  two  men 
who  had  been  summoned  by  the  driver  of  the  omnibus 
to  bring  in  Guy's  books  were  staggering  and  sweating  into 
the  hall.  However,  the  confusion  relaxed  in  time;  and 
before  the  clock  struck  ten  Guy  was  alone  with  Miss 
Peasey  and  without  an  audience  was  managing  to  make 
her  understand  most  of  what  he  was  saying. 

"I'll  come  down  in  about  half  an  hour,"  he  told  her, 
"and  show  you  your  room." 

21 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"It's  a  long  way,"  said  Miss  Peasey,  when  the  moment 
was  arrived  to  conduct  her  up  the  winding  staircase  to 
her  bower  in  the  roof.  Guy  had  calculated  that  she  would 
miss  all  the  beams,  and  so  from  a  desire  to  make  the  best 
of  the  staircase  he  had  not  mentioned  them.  He  sighed 
with  relief  when  she  passed  into  her  bedroom,  unbumped. 

"Oh,  quite  nice,"  she  pronounced,  looking  round  her. 

"In  the  morning  we'll  talk  over  everything,"  said  Guy, 
and  with  a  hurried  good-night  he  rushed  away. 

In  the  hall  he  attacked  with  a  chisel  the  first  packing- 
case.  One  by  one  familiar  volumes  winked  at  him  with 
their  gold  lettering  in  the  candle-light.  He  chose  Keats 
to  take  up-stairs,  and,  having  read  "St.  Agnes'  Eve," 
stood  by  the  window  of  his  bedroom  poring  upon  the 
moonlit  valley. 

In  bed  his  mind  skipped  the  stress  of  Miss  Peasey's 
arrival  and  fled  back  to  the  meadows  where  he  had  been 
walking. 

"Monica,  Margaret  .  .  ."  he  began,  dreamily.  It  was 
a  pity  he  had  forgotten  to  find  out  the  name  of  that 
sister  who  was  so  like  a  wild  rose.  Never  mind;  he 
would  find  out  to-morrow.  And  for  the  second  time  that 
day  the  word  lulled  him  like  an  opiate. 


OCTOBER 

IT  was  a  blowy  afternoon  early  in  October,  and  Pauline 
was  sitting  by  the  window  of  what  at  Wychford  Rec- 
tory was  still  called  the  nursery.  The  persistence  of  the 
old  name  might  almost  be  taken  as  symbolic  of  the  way 
in  which  time  had  glided  by  that  house  unrecognized, 
for  here  were  Monica,  Margaret,  and  Pauline  grown  up 
before  any  one  had  thought  of  changing  its  name  even  to 
school-room.  And  with  the  old  name  it  had  preserved 
the  character  childhood  had  lent  it.  There  was  not  a 
chair  that  did  not  appear  now  like  the  veteran  survivor 
of  childish  wars  and  misappropriations,  nor  any  table  nor 
cupboard  that  did  not  testify  to  an  affectionate  ill-treat- 
ment prolonged  over  many  years.  On  the  walls  the 
paper  which  had  once  been  vivid  in  its  expression  of 
primitive  gaiety  was  now  faded;  but  the  pattern  of  ber- 
ries, birds,  and  daisies  still  displayed  that  eternally  unex- 
plored tangle  as  freshly  as  once  it  was  displayed  for 
childish  fancies  of  adventure.  Pauline  had  always  loved 
the  window-seat,  and  from  here  she  had  always  seen  be- 
fore any  one  else  at  the  Rectory  the  first  flash  of  Spring's 
azure  eyes,  the  first  graying  of  Winter's  locks.  So  now 
on  this  afternoon  she  could  see  the  bullying  southwest 
wind  thunderous  against  whatever  laggards  of  Summer 
still  tried  to  shelter  themselves  in  the  Rectory  garden. 
Occasionally  a  few  raindrops  seemed  to  effect  a  frantic 
escape  from  the  fierce  assault  and  cling  desperately  to  the 
window-panes,  but  since  nobody  could  call  it  a  really  wet 
day  Pauline  had  been  protesting  all  the  afternoon  against 

23 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

her  sisters'  unwillingness  to  go  out.  Staying  indoors  was 
such  a  surrender  to  the  season. 

"We  ought  to  practise  that  Mendelssohn  trio,"  Monica 
argued. 

"I  hate  Mendelssohn,"  Pauline  retorted. 

"Well,  I  shall  practise  the  piano  part." 

"Oh,  Monica,  it  will  sound  so  dreadfully  empty,"  cried 
Pauline.  "Won't  it,  Margaret?" 

"I'm  reading  Mansfield  Park.  Don't  talk,"  Margaret 
murmured.  "If  I  could  write  like  Jane  Austen,"  she 
went  on,  dreamily,  "I  should  be  the  happiest  person  in 
the  world." 

"Oh,  but  you  are  the  happiest  person  already,"  said 
Pauline.  "At  least  you  ought  to  be,  if  you'd  only.  .  .  ." 

"You  know  I  hate  you  to  talk  about  him,"  Margaret 
interrupted. 

Pauline  was  silent.  It  was  always  a  little  alarming 
when  Margaret  was  angry.  With  Monica  one  took  for 
granted  the  disapproval  of  a  fastidious  nature,  and  it 
was  fun  to  tease  her;  but  Margaret  with  her  sudden  alter- 
nations of  hardness  and  sympathy,  of  being  great  fun  and 
frightfully  intolerant,  it  was  always  wiser  to  propitiate. 
So  Pauline  stayed  in  the  window-seat,  pondering  mourn- 
fully the  lawn  mottled  with  leaves,  and  the  lily-pond  that 
was  being  seamed  and  crinkled  by  every  gust  of  the  wind 
that  skated  across  the  surface.  The  very  high  gray  wall 
against  which  the  Japanese  quinces  spread  their  peacock- 
tails  of  foliage  was  shutting  her  out  from  the  world  to- 
day, and  Pauline  wished  it  were  Summer  again  so  that 
she  could  hurry  through  the  little  door  in  the  wall  and 
across  the  paddock  to  the  banks  of  the  Greenbush.  In 
the  Rectory  punt  she  would  not  have  had  to  bother  with 
sisters  who  would  not  come  out  for  a  walk  when  they 
were  invited. 

The  tall  trees  on  either  side  of  the  lawn  roared  in  the 
wind  and  showered  more  leaves  upon  the  angry  air. 
What  a  long  time  it  was  to  Summer,  and  for  no  reason 

24 


AUTUMN 

that  she  could  have  given  herself  Pauline  began  to  think 
about  the  man  who  had  taken  Flashers  Mead.  Of  course 
it  was  obvious  he  would  fall  in  love  either  with  Monica 
or  with  Margaret,  and  really  it  must  be  managed  somehow 
that  he  should  choose  Monica.  Everybody  fell  in  love  with 
Margaret,  which  was  so  hard  on  poor  Richard  out  in 
India,  who  was  much  the  nicest  person  in  the  world,  and 
whom  Margaret  must  never  give  up.  Pauline  looked  at 
her  sister  and  felt  afraid  the  new  tenant  of  Plashers  Mead 
would  fall  in  love  with  her,  for  Margaret  was  so  very  ador- 
able with  her  slim  hands  and  her  somber  hair. 

"Really  almost  more  like  a  lily  than  a  girl,"  thought 
Pauline.  Somehow  the  comparison  reassured  her,  since  it 
was  impossible  to  think  of  any  one's  rushing  to  gather  a 
lily  without  a  great  deal  of  hesitation. 

"I  wish  poor  Richard  would  write  and  tell  her  she  is 
like  a  lily,  instead  of  always  writing  such  a  lot  about 
the  bridge  he  is  building,  though  I  expect  it's  a  very 
wonderful  bridge." 

After  all,  Monica  with  her  glinting  evanescence  was  just 
as  beautiful  as  Margaret,  and  even  more  mysterious;  and 
if  she  only  would  not  be  so  frightening  to  young  men, 
who  would  not  fall  in  love  with  her!  Pauline  wondered 
vaguely  if  she  could  not  persuade  Margaret  to  go  away 
for  a  month,  so  that  the  new  tenant  of  Plashers  Mead 
might  have  had  time  to  fall  irremediably  in  love  with 
Monica  before  she  came  back.  Richard  would  certainly 
be  dreadfully  worried  out  in  India  when  he  heard  of  a 
young  man  at  Plashers  Mead,  and  certainly  rather  .  .  . 
yes,  certainly  in  church  on  Sunday  he  had  appeared 
rather  charming.  It  was  only  last  Spring  that  poor  Rich- 
ard had  wished  he  could  be  living  in  Plashers  Mead  him- 
self, and  they  had  had  several  long  discussions  which  never 
shed  any  light  upon  the  problem  of  how  such  an  ambition 
would  be  gratified. 

"I  expect  Monica  will  be  like  ice,  and  Margaret  will 
seem  so  much  easier  to  talk  to,  and  if  I  dared  to  suggest 
3  25 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

that  Monica  should  unbend  a  little  she  would  freeze  me 
as  well.  Oh,  it's  all  very  difficult,"  sighed  Pauline  to  her- 
self, "and  perhaps  I'd  better  not  try  to  influence  things. 
Only,  if  he  does  seem  to  like  Margaret  much  better  than 
Monica,  I  shall  have  to  bring  poor  Richard  into  the 
conversation,  which  always  makes  Margaret  cross  for 
days." 

As  she  came  to  this  resolution  Pauline  looked  half  ap- 
prehensively at  her  sister  reading  in  the  tumble-down 
arm-chair  by  the  fire.  How  angry  Margaret  would  be  if 
she  guessed  what  was  being  plotted,  and  Pauline  actually 
jumped  when  she  suddenly  declared  that  Mansfield  Park 
was  almost  the  best  book  Jane  Austen  ever  wrote. 

"Is  it,  darling  Margaret?"  said  Pauline,  with  a  disarm- 
ing willingness  to  be  told  again  that  it  certainly  was. 

"Or  perhaps  Emma"  Margaret  murmured,  and  Pauline 
hid  herself  behind  the  curtains.  How  droll  Father  had 
been  about  the  "new  young  creature"  at  Plashers  Mead! 
It  had  been  so  difficult  to  persuade  him  to  interrupt  one 
precious  afternoon  of  planting  bulbs  to  do  his  duty  either 
as  a  neighbor  or  as  Rector  of  the  parish.  And  when  he 
came  back  all  he  would  say  of  the  visit  was: 

"Very  pleasant,  my  dears.  Oh  yes,  he  showed  me  every- 
thing, and  he  really  has  a  most  remarkable  collection  of 
dish-covers — quite  remarkable.  But  I  ought  not  to  have 
deserted  those  irises  that  Garstin  sent  me  from  the 
Taurus.  Now  perhaps  we  shall  manage  that  obstinate 
little  plum-colored  brute  which  likes  the  outskirts  of  a 
pine  forest,  so  they  tell  me." 

Just  as  Pauline  was  laughing  to  herself  at  the  memory 
of  her  father's  visit,  the  Rector  himself  appeared  on  the 
lawn.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves;  his  knees  were  muddy 
with  kneeling;  and  Birdwood,  the  gardener,  all  blown 
about  by  the  wind,  was  close  behind  him,  carrying  an 
armful  of  roots. 

Pauline  threw  up  the  window  with  a  crash  and  called 
out: 

26 


AUTUMN 

"Father,  Father,  what  a  darling  you  look,  and  your 
hair  will  be  swept  right  away,  if  you  aren't  careful." 

The  Rector  waved  his  trowel  remotely,  and  Pauline 
blew  him  kisses  until  she  was  made  aware  of  protests  in 
the  room  behind  her. 

"Really,"  exclaimed  Monica.  "You  are  so  noisy. 
You're  almost  vulgar." 

"Oh  no,  Monica,"  cried  Pauline,  dancing  round  the 
room.  "Not  vulgar.  Not  a  horrid  little  vulgar  per- 
son!" 

"And  what  a  noise  you  do  make,"  Margaret  joined  in. 
"Please,  Pauline,  shut  the  window." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Grey  opened  the  door  and  loosed 
a  whirlwind  of  papers  upon  the  nursery. 

"Who's  vulgar?  Who's  vulgar?"  asked  Mrs.  Grey, 
laughing  absurdly.  "Why,  what  a  tremendous  draught!" 

"Mother,  shut  the  door — the  door,"  expostulated  Mar- 
garet and  Monica,  simultaneously.  "And  do  tell  Pauline 
to  control  herself  sometimes." 

"Pauline,  control  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Grey. 

When  the  papers  were  settling  down,  Janet,  the  maid, 
came  in  to  say  there  was  a  gentleman  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  in  the  confusion  of  the  new  whirlwind  her  entrance 
raised  Janet  was  gone  before  any  one  knew  who  the 
gentleman  was. 

"Ugh!"  Margaret  grumbled.  "I  never  can  be  allowed 
to  read  in  peace." 

"I  was  practising  the  Mendelssohn  trio,  Mother,"  said 
Monica,  reproachfully. 

"Let  us  all  practise.  Let  us  all  practise,"  Mrs.  Grey 
proposed,  beaming  enthusiastically  upon  her  daughters. 
"That  would  be  charming." 

"Father  is  so  sweet,"  said  Pauline.  "He's  simply 
covered  with  mud." 

"Has  he  got  his  kneeler?"  asked  Mrs.  Grey. 

Pauline  rushed  to  the  window  again. 

"Mother  says  'have  you  got  your  kneeler?'" 

27 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

The  Rector  paused  vaguely,  and  Birdwood  tried  to  in- 
dicate by  kicking  himself  that  he  had  the  kneeler. 

"Ah,  thoughtful  Birdwood,"  said  Mrs.  Grey  in  a  satis- 
fied voice. 

"And  now  do  you  think  we  might  have  the  window 
shut?"  asked  Margaret,  resignedly. 

Monica  was  quite  deliberately  thumping  at  the  piano 
part  she  was  practising.  Mrs.  Grey  sat  down  and  began 
to  tell  a  long  story  in  which  three  poor  people  of  Wych- 
ford  got  curiously  blended  somehow  into  one,  so  that 
Pauline,  who  was  the  only  daughter  that  ever  listened, 
became  very  sympathetic  over  a  fourth  poor  person  who 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  tale. 

"And  surely  Janet  came  in  to  say  something  about  the 
drawing-room,"  said  Mrs.  Grey,  as  she  finished. 

"She  said  a  gentleman,"  Pauline  declared. 

"Oh,  how  vague  you  all  are!"  exclaimed  Margaret, 
jumping  up. 

"Well,  Margaret,  you  were  here,"  Pauline  said.  "And 
so  was  Monica." 

"But  I  was  practising,"  said  Monica,  primly.  "And  I 
didn't  hear  a  word  Janet  said." 

There  was  always  this  preliminary  confusion  at  the 
Rectory  when  a  stranger  was  announced,  and  it  always 
ended  in  the  same  way  by  Mrs.  Grey  and  Monica  going 
down  first,  by  Pauline  rushing  after  them  and  banging  the 
door  as  they  were  greeting  the  visitor,  and  by  Margaret 
strolling  in  when  the  stage  of  comparative  ease  had  been 
attained.  So  it  fell  out  on  this  occasion,  for  Monica's 
skirt  was  just  disappearing  round  the  drawing-room  door 
when  Pauline,  horrified  at  the  idea  of  having  to  come  in 
by  herself,  cleared  the  last  three  stairs  of  the  billowy  flight 
with  a  leap  and  sent  Monica  spinning  forward  as  the  door 
propelled  her  into  the  room. 

"Monica,  I  am  so  sorry." 

"Pauline!  Pauline!"  said  Mrs.  Grey,  reprovingly. 
"So  like  an  avalanche  always." 

28 


AUTUMN 

Guy,  who  had  by  now  been  waiting  nearly  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  came  forward  a  little  shyly. 

"How  d'ye  do,  how  d'ye  do,"  said  Mrs.  Grey,  quickly 
and  nervously.  "We're  so  delighted  to  see  you.  So  good 
of  you  .  .  .  charming  really.  Pauline  is  always  impetu- 
ous. You've  come  to  study  farming  at  Wychford,  haven't 
you?  Most  interesting.  Don't  tug  at  me,  Pauline. 
Monica,  do  ring  for  tea.  Are  you  fond  of  music?" 

Pauline  withdrew  from  the  conversation  after  the  whis- 
pered attempt  to  correct  her  mother  about  Mr.  Hazle- 
wood's  having  taken  Flashers  Mead  in  order  to  be  a 
farmer.  She  wanted  to  contemplate  the  visitor  without 
being  made  to  involve  herself  in  the  confusions  of  polite- 
ness. "Was  he  dangerous  to  Richard?"  she  asked  her- 
self, and  alas,  she  had  to  tell  herself  that  indeed  it  seemed 
probable  he  might  be.  Of  course  he  was  inevitably  on 
the  way  to  falling  in  love  with  Margaret,  and  as  she  looked 
at  him  with  his  clear-cut,  pale  face,  his  tumbled  hair  and 
large  brown  eyes  which  changed  what  seemed  at  first  a 
slightly  cynical  personality  to  one  that  was  almost  a  little 
wistful,  Pauline  began  to  speculate  if  Margaret  might  not 
herself  be  rather  attracted  to  him.  This  was  an  unfore- 
seen complication,  for  Margaret  so  far  had  only  accepted 
homage.  Pauline  definitely  began  to  be  jealous  for  Rich- 
ard, whose  homage  had  been  the  most  prodigal  of  any; 
and  as  Guy  drawled  on  about  his  first  adventure  of  house- 
keeping she  told  herself  he  was  affected.  The  impression, 
too,  of  listening  to  some  one  more  than  usually  self- 
possessed  and  cynical  revived  in  her  mind;  and  those 
maliciously  drooping  lids  were  obliterating  the  effect  of 
the  brown  eyes.  Sitting  by  herself  in  the  oriel  window, 
Pauline  was  nearly  sure  she  did  not  like  him.  He  had 
no  business  to  be  at  the  Rectory  when  Richard  was 
building  a  bridge  out  in  India;  and  now  here  was  Mar- 
garet strolling  graciously  in,  and  almost  at  once  obviously 
knowing  so  well  how  to  get  on  with  this  idler.  Oh,  posi- 
tively she  disliked  him.  So  cold  and  so  cruel  was  that 

29 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

mouth,  and  so  vain  he  was,  as  he  sat  there  bending  for- 
ward over  hand-clasped,  long,  stupid,  crossed  legs.  What 
right  had  he  to  laugh  with  Margaret  about  their  father's 
visit  ?  This  stranger  had  assuredly  never  appreciated  him. 
He  was  come  here  to  spoil  the  happiness  of  Wychford, 
to  destroy  the  immemorial  perfection  of  life  at  the  Rectory. 
And  why  would  he  keep  looking  up  at  herself?  "Mar- 
garet could  be  pleasant  to  anybody,  but  this  intruder 
would  soon  find  that  she  herself  was  loyal  to  the  absent. 
Pauline  wished  that,  when  he  met  them  all  on  that  night 
of  the  moon,  she  had  been  so  horridly  rude  as  to  make 
him  avoid  the  family  for  ever.  How  could  Margaret  sit 
there  talking  so  unconcernedly,  when  Richard  might  be 
dying  of  sunstroke  at  this  very  moment?  Margaret  was 
heartless,  and  this  stranger  with  his  drawl  and  his  under- 
graduate affectation  would  encourage  her  to  sneer  at 
everything. 

"What's  the  matter,  Pauline  dearest?"  her  mother 
turned  round  to  ask. 

"Nothing,"  answered  Pauline,  biting  her  lips  to  keep 
back  surely  the  most  unreasonable  tears  she  had  ever  felt 
were  springing. 

"You're  not  cross  with  me  for  calling  you  a  landslide?" 
persisted  Mrs.  Grey,  smiling  at  her  from  the  midst  of  a 
glory  momentarily  shed  by  a  stormy  ray  of  sunshine. 

"Oh,  Mother,"  said  Pauline,  now  fairly  in  the  midway 
between  laughter  and  tears.  "It  was  an  avalanche  you 
called  me." 

"Why  do  you  always  sit  near  a  window?"  asked 
Monica. 

"She  always  rushes  into  a  corner,"  said  Margaret. 

Pauline  jumped  up  from  her  chair  and  would  have 
run  out  of  the  room  forthwith;  but  in  passing  the  first 
table  she  knocked  from  it  a  silver  bowl  of  potpourri  and 
scattered  the  contents  over  the  carpet.  Down  she  knelt 
to  hide  her  confusion  and  repair  the  damage,  and  at  the 
same  moment  Guy  plunged  down  beside  her  to  help. 

30 


AUTUMN 

She  caught  his  eyes  so  tenderly  humorous  that  she  too 
laughed. 

"I  think  it  must  be  my  fault,"  he  said.  "Don't  you 
remember  how,  last  time  we  met,  your  sister  upset  the 
mushrooms?" 

Pauline  knew  she  was  blushing,  and  when  the  rose- 
leaves  were  all  gathered  up,  tea  came  in.  Her  attention 
was  now  entirely  occupied  by  preventing  her  mother  from 
doing  the  most  ridiculous  things  with  cakes  and  sugar  and 
milk,  and  when  tea  was  over  Guy  got  up  to  go. 

There  was  a  brief  discussion  after  his  departure,  in 
which  Margaret  was  so  critical  of  his  dress  and  of  his 
absurdities  that  Pauline  was  reassured,  and  presently, 
indeed,  found  herself  taking  their  visitor's  part  against 
her  sisters. 

"Quite  right,  quite  right,  Pauline,"  said  Mrs.  Grey. 
"He's  charming  .  .  .  charming  .  .  .  charming!  Margaret 
and  Monica  so  critical.  Always  so  critical." 

Presently  the  family  hurried  out  into  the  drive  to  pro- 
test against  the  Rector's  planting  any  more  bulbs,  to  tell 
him  how  unkind  he  had  been  not  to  come  in  to  tea,  and 
to  warn  him  that  the  bell  would  sound  for  Evensong  in 
two  minutes.  He  was  dragged  out  of  the  shrubbery 
where  he  had  been  superintending  a  clearance  of  aucubas, 
preparatory  to  planting  a  drift  of  new  and  very  deep 
yellow  primroses. 

"Really,  my  dears,  I  have  never  seen  Primula-  vulgaris 
so  fine  in  texture  or  color.  My  friend  Gilmour  has  spent 
ten  years  working  up  the  stock.  As  large  as  florins." 

So  he  boasted  of  new  wonders  next  Spring  in  the  Rec- 
tory garden,  while  his  wife  and  daughters  brushed  him 
and  dusted  him  and  helped  to  button  up  his  cassock. 

"Doesn't  Father  look  a  darling?"  demanded  Pauline, 
as  they  watched  the  tall,  handsome  dreamer  striding  along 
the  drive  towards  the  sound  of  the  bell,  that  was  clanging 
loud  and  soft  in  its  battle  with  the  wind. 

"Oh,  Pauline,  run  after  him,"  said  Mrs.  Grey,  "and 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

remind  him  it's  the  Eighteenth  Sunday  after  Trinity. 
He  started  wrong  last  Sunday,  and  to-day's  Wednesday, 
and  it  so  offends  some  of  the  congregation." 

Pauline  overtook  her  father  in  the  church  porch,  and 
he  promised  he  would  be  careful  to  read  the  right  collect. 
She  had  not  stayed  to  get  a  hat,  and  therefore  must  wait 
for  him  outside. 

"Very  well,  my  dear  child;  I  sha'n't  be  long.  Do  go 
and  see  if  those  sternbergias  I  planted  against  the  south 
porch  are  in  flower.  Dear  me,  they  should  be,  you  know, 
after  this  not  altogether  intolerably  overcast  summer. 
Sun,  though,  sun!  they  want  sun,  poor  dears!" 

"  But,  Father,  I  can't  remember  what  sternbergias  look 
like." 

"Oh  yes,  you  can,"  said  the  Rector.  " Sternbergia 
lutea.  Amaryllidaceae.  A  perfectly  ordinary  creature." 
And  he  vanished  in  the  gloom  of  the  priest's  door. 

As  Pauline  came  round  the  corner  the  wind  was  full 
in  her  face,  and  under  the  rose-edged  wrack  of  driving 
clouds  the  churchyard  looked  desolate  and  savage.  There 
were  no  flowers  to  be  seen  but  beaten-down  Michaelmas 
daisies  and  bedabbled  phlox.  The  bell  had  stopped  im- 
mediately when  the  Rector  arrived;  and  the  wind  seemed 
now  much  louder  as  it  went  howling  round  the  great  church 
or  rasping  through  the  yews  and  junipers.  The  church- 
yard was  bounded  on  the  northerly  side  by  the  mill- 
stream,  along  which  ran  a  wide  path  between  a  double  row 
of  willows  now  hissing  and  whistling  as  they  were  whipped 
by  the  blasts.  Pauline  walked  slowly  down  this  unquiet 
ambulatory,  gazing  curiously  over  to  the  other  bank  of 
the  stream,  where  the  orchard  of  Plashers  Mead  was 
strewn  with  red  apples.  There  in  the  corner  by  the  house 
that  was  just  visible  stood  the  owner,  playing  with  a  dog, 
a  bobtail,  too,  which  was  the  kind  Pauline  liked  best. 
She  wanted  very  much  to  wave,  but,  of  course,  it  was  im- 
possible for  the  Rector's  daughter  to  do  anything  like 
that  in  the  churchyard.  Yet  if  he  did  chance  to  walk  in 

32 


AUTUMN 

her  direction,  she  would,  whatever  happened,  shout  to 
him  across  the  stream  to  bring  the  dog  next  time  he  came 
to  the  Rectory.  Pauline  walked  four  times  up  and  down 
the  path,  but  first  the  dog  disappeared  and  then  the 
owner  followed  him,  and  presently  Pauline  discovered 
that  the  path  beside  the  abandoned  stream  was  very 
dreary.  The  crooked  tombstones  stood  up  starkly;  the 
wind  sighed  across  the  green  graves  of  the  unknown;  the 
fiery  roses  were  fallen  from  the  clouds.  Pauline  turned 
away  from  the  path  and  went  to  take  shelter  behind  the 
east  end  of  the  church.  From  here,  as  she  fronted  the 
invading  night,  she  could  see  the  gray  wall  of  the  Rectory 
garden  and  the  paddock  sloping  down  to  the  river.  How 
sad  it  was  to  think  of  the  months  that  must  pass  before 
that  small  meadow  would  be  speckled  with  fritillaries  or 
with  irises  blow  white  and  purple.  The  wind  shrieked 
with  a  sudden  gust  that  seemed  more  violent,  because 
where  she  was  standing  not  a  blade  of  grass  twitched. 
Pauline  looked  up  to  reassure  herself  that  the  steeple  was 
not  toppling  from  the  tower;  as  she  did  so  a  gargoyle 
grinned  down  at  her.  The  grotesque  was  frightening  in 
the  dusk,  and  she  hurried  round  to  the  priest's  door.  The 
Rector  came  out  as  she  reached  it,  and  accepted  vaguely 
the  information  that  there  were  no  flowers  to  be  seen 
but  Michaelmas  daisies  and  phlox. 

"Ah,  I  told  Birdwood  to  confiscate  those  abominable 
dahlias  which  wretched  Mrs.  Godbold  will  plant  every 
year.  I  gave  her  some  of  that  new  saxifrage  I  raised. 
What  more  does  the  woman  want?" 

Pauline  hung  upon  his  arm  while  they  walked  back  to 
the  Rectory  through  the  darkling  plantation. 

"Isn't  it  a  perfect  place?"  she  murmured,  hugging  his 
arm  closer  when  they  came  to  the  end  of  the  mossy 
path  and  saw  the  twinkling  of  the  drawing-room's  oriel 
on  the  narrow  south  side,  and  the  eleven  steep  gables 
that  cleft  the  now  scarcely  luminous  sky,  one  after  an- 
other all  the  length  of  the  house. 

33 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"I  doubt  if  anything  but  this  confounded  cotoneaster 
would  do  well  against  this  wall,"  replied  the  Rector. 

He  never  failed  to  make  this  observation  when  he 
reached  his  front  door;  and  his  family  knew  that  one 
day  the  cotoneaster  would  be  torn  down  for  a  succession 
of  camellias  to  struggle  with  the  east  winds  of  unkind 
Oxfordshire.  In  the  hall  Mrs.  Grey  and  Margaret  were 
bending  over  a  table. 

"Guy  has  left  his  card,"  said  Margaret. 

"Is  that  the  man  who  came  to  see  me  about  the  rats?" 
asked  the  Rector. 

"No,  no,  Francis,"  said  Mrs.  Grey.  "Guy  is  the  young 
man  at  Flashers  Mead." 

"Isn't  Francis  sweet?"  cried  Pauline,  reaching  up  to 
kiss  him. 

"Hush,  Pauline.  Pauline,  you  must  not  call  your 
father  Francis  in  the  hall,"  said  Mrs.  Grey. 

"How  touching  of  Guy  to  leave  a  card,"  Pauline  mur- 
mured, looking  at  the  oblong  of  pasteboard  shimmering 
in  the  gloom. 

"Now  we've  just  time  to  practise  the  Mendelssohn  trio 
before  dinner,"  declared  Mrs.  Grey.  "And  that  will 
make  you  warm." 

The  Rector  wandered  off  to  his  library.  Margaret  and 
Pauline  went  with  their  mother  up  shadowy  staircases  and 
through  shadowy  corridors  to  the  great  music-room  that 
ran  half  the  length  of  the  roof.  Monica  was  already 
seated  at  the  piano,  all  white  and  golden  herself  in  the 
candle-light.  Languidly  Margaret  unpacked  her  violon- 
cello; Pauline  tuned  her  violin.  Soon  the  house  was  full 
of  music,  and  the  wind  in  the  night  was  scarcely  audible. 


NOVEMBER 

WHEN  Guy  left  the  Rectory  that  October  afternoon, 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  put  back  upon  its  shelf  a  book 
the  inside  of  which,  thus  briefly  glanced  at,  held  for  him, 
whenever  he  should  be  privileged  to  open  it  again,  a  new, 
indeed  an  almost  magical,  representation  of  life.  On  his 
fancy  the  Greys  had  impressed  themselves  with  a  kind  of 
abundant  naturalness;  but  however  deeply  he  tried  to 
think  he  was  already  plunged  into  the  heart  of  their  life, 
he  realized  that  it  was  only  in  such  a  way  as  he  might 
have  dipped  into  the  heart  of  a  book.  The  intimacy  re- 
vealed was  not  revealed  by  any  inclusion  of  himself 
within  the  charm;  and  he  was  a  little  sad  to  think  how 
completely  he  must  have  seemed  outside  the  picture. 
Hence  his  first  aspiration  with  regard  to  the  family  was 
somehow  to  become  no  longer  a  spectator,  but  actually 
a  happy  player  in  their  representation  of  existence. 
Ordinarily,  so  far  as  experience  had  hitherto  carried  him, 
it  had  been  easy  enough  to  find  himself  on  terms  of  in- 
timacy with  any  group  of  human  beings  whose  company 
was  sufficiently  attractive.  For  him,  perhaps,  it  had  even 
been  particularly  easy,  so  that  he  had  never  known  the 
mortification  of  a  repulse.  No  doubt  now  by  contriving 
to  be  himself  and  relying  upon  the  interest  that  was  sure 
to  be  roused  by  his  isolation  and  poetic  ambitions,  he 
would  very  soon  be  accorded  the  freedom  of  the  Rectory. 
Yet  such  a  prospect,  however  pleasant  to  contemplate, 
did  not  satisfy  him,  and  he  was  already  troubled  by  a 
faint  jealousy  of  the  many  unknown  friends  of  the  Greys, 

35 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

to  whom  in  the  past  the  privilege  of  that  freedom  must 
have  been  frequently  accorded.  Guy  wanted  more  than 
that;  in  the  excess  of  his  appreciation  he  wanted  them 
to  marvel  at  a  time  when  they  had  not  been  aware  of 
his  existence;  in  fact,  he  was  anxious  to  make  himself 
necessary  to  their  own  sense  of  their  own  completeness. 
As  he  entered  his  solitary  hall  he  was  depressed  by  the 
extravagance  of  such  a  desire,  saying  to  himself  that  he 
might  as  well  sigh  to  become  an  integral  figure  of  a 
pastoral  by  Giorgione,  or  of  any  work  of  art  the  life  of 
which  seems  but  momentarily  stilled  for  the  pleasure  of 
whomsoever  is  observing  it. 

Guy  was  for  a  while  almost  impatient  even  of  his  own 
room,  for  he  felt  it  was  lacking  in  any  atmosphere  except 
the  false  charm  of  novelty.  He  had  been  here  three 
weeks  now,  he  and  deaf  Miss  Peasey;  and  were  the  two 
of  them  swept  away  to-morrow  Flashers  Mead  would 
adapt  itself  to  new-comers.  There  was  nothing  wrong 
with  the  house;  such  breeding  would  survive  any  occupa- 
tion it  might  be  called  upon  to  tolerate.  On  the  other 
hand,  were  chance  to  sweep  the  Greys  from  Wychford, 
so  essentially  did  the  Rectory  seem  their  creation  that 
already  it  was  unimaginable  to  Guy  apart  from  them. 
And  as  yet  he  had  only  dipped  into  the  volume.  Who 
could  say  what  exquisite  and  intimate  paragraphs  did 
not  await  a  more  leisurely  perusal  ?  Really,  thought  Guy, 
he  might  almost  suppose  himself  in  love  with  the  family, 
so  much  did  the  vision  of  them  in  that  shadowy  drawing- 
room  haunt  his  memory.  Indeed,  they  were  become  a 
picture  that  positively  ached  in  his  mind  with  longing 
for  the  moment  of  its  repetition.  For  some  days  he  spent 
all  his  time  in  the  orchard,  throwing  sticks  for  his  new 
bobtail;  denying  himself  with  an  absurd  self-conscious- 
ness the  pleasure  of  walking  so  far  along  the  mill-stream 
even  as  the  bank  opposite  to  the  Rectory  paddock; 
denying  himself  a  fortuitous  meeting  with  any  of  the 
family  in  Wychford  High  Street;  and  on  Sunday  denying 

36 


AUTUMN 

himself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  in  church,  because 
he  felt  it  might  appear  an  excuse  to  be  noticed.  The 
vision  of  the  Rectory  obsessed  him,  but  so  elusively  that 
when  in  verse  he  tried  to  state  the  emotion  merely  for 
his  own  satisfaction,  he  failed,  and  he  took  refuge  from  his 
disappointment  by  nearly  always  being  late  for  meals. 
Often  he  would  see  Miss  Peasey  walking  about  the  orchard 
with  desolate  tinkle  of  a  Swiss  sheep-bell,  the  only  instru- 
ment of  summons  that  the  house  possessed.  Miss  Peasey 
herself  looked  not  unlike  a  battered  old  bellwether  as 
she  wandered  searching  for  him  in  the  wind;  and  Guy 
used  to  watch  her  from  behind  a  tree-trunk,  laughing  to 
himself  until  Bob  the  dog  trotted  from  one  to  another, 
describing  anxious  circles  round  their  separation. 

"Your  dinner's  been  waiting  ten  minutes,  Mr.  Hazle- 
wood!" 

"Doesn't  matter,"  Guy  would  shout. 

"Mutton  to-day,"  Miss  Peasey  would  say,  and,  "a  lit- 
tle variety,"  she  always  added. 

Miss  Peasey's  religion  was  variety,  and  her  tragedy  was 
an  invention  that  never  kept  pace  with  aspiration.  For 
three  weeks  Guy  had  been  given  on  Sunday  roast  beef 
which  lasted  till  Wednesday;  while  on  Thursday  he  was 
given  roast  mutton,  which  as  a  depressing  cold  bone  al- 
ways went  out  from  the  dining-room  on  Saturday  night. 
Every  morning  he  was  asked  what  he  would  like  for  din- 
ner, to  which  he  always  replied  that  he  left  it  to  her. 
Once,  indeed,  in  a  fertile  moment  he  had  suggested  a 
curry,  and  Miss  Peasey,  brightening  wonderfully,  had 
chirped: 

"Ah  yes,  a  little  variety." 

But  in  the  evening  the  taste  of  hot  tin  that  represented 
Miss  Peasey's  curry  made  him  for  ever  afterwards  leave 
the  variety  to  her  own  fancy,  thereby  preserving  hence- 
forth that  immutable  alternation  of  roast  beef  and  roast 
mutton  which  was  the  horizon  of  her  housekeeping. 

These  solitary  meals  were  lightened  by  the  thought  of 

37 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

the  Rectory.  Neither  beef  nor  mutton  seemed  of  much 
importance  when  his  mind's  eye  could  hold  that  shadowy 
drawing-room.  There  was  Monica  with  her  pale-gold 
hair  in  the  stormy  sunlight,  cold  and  shy,  but  of  such  a 
marble  purity  of  line  that  but  to  sit  beside  her  was  to 
admire  a  statue  whose  coldness  made  her  the  more  ad- 
mirable. There  was  Margaret,  carved  slimly  out  of  ivory, 
very  tall,  with  weight  of  dusky  hair,  and  slow,  fastidious 
voice  that  spoke  dreamily  of  the  things  Guy  loved  best. 
There  was  Pauline  sitting  away  from  the  others  in  the 
window-seat,  away  in  her  shyness  and  wildness.  Was 
not  the  magic  of  her  almost  more  difficult  to  recapture 
than  any?  A  brier  rose  she  was  whose  petals  seemed 
to  fall  at  the  touch  of  definition,  a  brier  rose  that  was 
waving  out  of  reach,  even  of  thought.  Guy  wished  he 
could  visualize  the  Rector  in  his  own  drawing-room;  but 
instead  he  had  to  set  him  in  Flashers  Mead,  of  which  no 
doubt  he  had  thought  the  owner  a  young  ass;  and 
Guy  blushed  to  remember  the  nervous  idiocy  which  had 
let  him  take  the  Rector  solemnly  into  the  kitchen  to  look 
at  dish-covers  in  a  row,  and  deaf  Miss  Peasey  sitting  by 
as  much  fire  as  the  table  would  yield  to  her  chair.  But 
if  the  Rector  were  missing  from  the  picture,  at  any  rate 
he  could  picture  Mrs.  Grey,  shy  like  her  daughters  and 
with  a  delicious  vagueness  all  her  own.  She  was  most 
like  Pauline,  and  indeed  in  Pauline  Guy  could  see  her 
mother,  as  the  young  moon  holds  in  her  lap  the  wraith 
of  the  old  moon.  .  .  . 

"Why,  you  haven't  eaten  anything,"  remonstrated 
Miss  Peasey,  breaking  in  upon  his  vision.  "And  I've 
(made  you  a  rice  pudding  for  a  little  variety." 

The  shadowy  drawing-room  faded  with  the  old  chintz 
curtains  and  fragile,  almost  immaterial  silver;  the  china 
bowls  of  Lowestoft;  the  dull,  white  paneling  and  faintly 
aromatic  sweetness.  Instead  remained  a  rice  pudding 
that  smelled  and  looked  as  solid  as  a  pie. 

However,  that  very  afternoon  Guy  was  greatly  en- 

38 


AUTUMN 

couraged  to  get  an  invitation  to  dinner  at  the  Rectory 
from  the  hands  of  the  gardener.  Birdwood  was  one  of 
those  servants  who  seem  to  have  accepted  with  the  ob- 
ligations of  service  the  extreme  responsibilities  of  pater- 
nity; and  Guy  hastened  to  take  advantage  of  the  chance 
to  establish  himself  on  good  terms  with  one  who  might 
prove  a  most  powerful  ally. 

"Not  much  of  a  garden,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  depre- 
catingly,  to  Birdwood,  as  they  stood  in  colloquy  outside. 
The  gardener  shook  his  head. 

"It  wouldn't  do  for  the  Rector  to  see  them  cabbages 
and  winter  greens.  'I  won't  have  the  nasty  things  in  my 
garden,'  he  says  to  me,  and  he'll  rush  at  them  regular 
ferocious  with  a  fork.  'I  won't  have  them,'  he  says.  'I 
can't  abear  the  sight  of  them,'  he  says.  Well,  of  course 
I  knows  better  than  go  for  to  contradict  him  when  he 
gets  a  downer  on  any  plant,  don't  matter  whether  it's 
cabbage  or  calceolaria.  But  last  time,  when  he'd  done 
with  his  massacring  of  them,  I  popped  round  to  Mrs. 
Grey,  and  I  says,  winking  at  her  very  hard,  but  of  course 
not  meaning  any  disrespectfulness,  winking  at  her  very 
hard,  I  says,  '  Please,  mum,  I  want  one  of  these  new  allot- 
ments from  the  glebe.'  'Good  Heavings,  Birdwood,'  she 
says,  'whatever  on  earth  can  you  want  with  for  an  allot- 
ment?' With  that  I  winks  very  hard  again  and  says  in 
a  low  voice  right  into  her  ear  as  you  might  say,  'To  keep 
the  wolf  from  the  door,  mum,  with  a  few  winter  greens.' 
That's  the  way  we  grow  our  vegetables  for  the  Rectory, 
out  of  an  allotment,  though  we  have  got  five  acres  of 
garden.  Now  you  see  what  comes  of  being  a  connosher. 
You  take  my  advice,  Mr.  Hazlenut,  and  clear  all  them 
cabbages  out  of  sight  before  the  Rector  comes  round  here 
again." 

"I  will  certainly,"  Guy  promised.  "But  you  know 
it's  a  bit  difficult  for  me  to  spend  much  money  on  flowers." 

"We  don't  spend  money  over  at  the  Rectory,"  said 
Birdwood,  smiling  in  a  superior  way. 

39 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"No?" 

"We  don't  spend  a  penny.  We  has  every  mortal  plant 
and  seed  and  cutting  given  to  us.  And  not  only  that,  but 
we  gives  in  our  turn.  Look  here,  Mr.  Hazlenut,  I'm  going 
to  hand  you  out  a  bit  of  advice.  The  first  time  as  you  go 
round  our  garden  with  the  Rector,  when  you  turn  into  the 
second  wall-garden,  and  see  a  border  on  your  right,  you 
catch  hold  of  his  arm  and  say,  'Why,  good  Heavings,  if 
that  isn't  a  new  berberis.' " 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  know  what  an  old  berberis  looks 
like,"  said  Guy,  hopelessly,  "let  alone  a  new  one." 

"Never  mind  what  the  old  ones  look  like.  It's  the 
new  I'm  telling  you  of.  Don't  you  understand  that 
every  one  who  comes  down,  from  Kew  even,  says,  'That's 
a  nice  healthy  little  lot  of  Berberis  Knightii  as  you've 
got  a  hold  of.'  'Ha,' says  the  Rector.  'I  thought  as  you'd 
go  for  to  say  that.  But  it  ain't  Knightii,'  he  chuckles, 
'and  what's  more,  it  ain't  got  a  name  yet,  only  a  number, 
being  a  new  importation  from  China,'  he  says.  You  go 
and  call  out  what  I  told  you,  and  he'll  be  so  pleased,  why, 
I  wouldn't  say  he  won't  shovel  half  of  the  garden  into 
your  hands  straight  off." 

"Do  the  young  ladies  take  an  interest  in  flowers?"  Guy 
asked. 

"Of  course  they  try,"  said  Birdwood,  condescendingly. 
"But  neither  them  nor  their  mother  don't  seem  to  learn 
nothing.  They  think  more  of  a  good  clump  of  delly- 
phiniums  than  half  a  dozen  meconopises  as  some  one's 
gone  mad  to  discover,  with  a  lot  of  murderous  Lammers 
from  Tibbet  ready  to  knife  him  the  moment  his  back's 
turned." 

"Really?" 

"Oh,  I  was  like  that  myself  once.  I  can  remember  the 
time  when  I  was  as  fond  of  a  good  dahlia  as  anything. 
Now  I  goes  sniffing  the  ground  to  see  if  there's  any  Mentha 
requieni  left  over  from  the  frost." 

"Sniffing  the  ground?" 

40 


AUTUMN 

"That's  right.  It's  so  small  that  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
smell  any  one  wouldn't  see  it.  That's  worth  growing,  that 
is.  Only,  if  you'll  understand  me,  it  takes  any  one  who's 
used  to  looking  at  peonies  and  such  like  a  few  years  to 
find  out  the  object  of  a  plant  that  isn't  any  bigger  than 
a  pimple  on  an  elephant." 

Guy  was  reluctant  to  let  Birdwood  go  without  bringing 
him  to  talk  more  directly  of  the  family  and  less  of  the 
flowers.  At  the  same  time  he  felt  it  would  be  wiser  not 
to  rouse  in  the  gardener  any  suspicion  of  how  much  he 
was  interested  in  the  Rectory;  he  was  inclined  to  think 
he  might  resent  it,  and  he  wanted  him  as  a  friend. 

"Who  is  working  in  your  garden?"  asked  Birdwood, 
as  he  turned  to  go. 

"Well,  nobody  just  at  present,"  said  Guy,  apolo- 
getically. 

"All  right,"  Birdwood  announced.  "I'll  get  hold  of 
some  one  for  you  in  less  than  half  a  pig's  whisper." 

"But  not  all  the  time,"  Guy  explained,  quickly.  He 
was  worried  by  the  prospect  of  a  gardener's  wages  coming 
out  of  his  small  income. 

"Once  a  week  he'll  come  in,"  said  Birdwood. 

Guy  nodded. 

"What's  his  name?" 

"Graves  he's  called,  but,  being  deaf  and  dumb,  his 
name's  not  of  much  account." 

"Deaf  and  dumb?"  repeated  Guy.  "But  how  shall  I 
explain  what  I  want  done?" 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  Birdwood.  "I'll  come  round  and 
put  you  in  the  way  of  managing  him.  Work  ?  I  reckon 
that  boy  would  work  any  other  mortal  in  Wychford  to 
the  bone.  Work?  Well,  he  can't  hear  nothing,  and  he 
can't  say  nothing,  so  what  else  can  he  do?  And  he  does 
it.  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Hazlenut." 

And  Birdwood  retired,  whistling  very  shrilly  as  he  went 
down  the  path  to  the  gate. 

Two  nights  later  Guy,  with  lighted  lantern  in  his  hand, 
4  41 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

set  out  to  the  Rectory.  He  did  not  venture  to  go  by  the 
orchard  and  the  fields  and  so,  crossing  the  narrow  bridge 
over  the  stream,  enter  by  way  of  the  garden.  Such  an 
approach  seemed  too  familiar  for  the  present  stage  of  his 
friendship,  and  he  took  the  more  formal  route  through  an 
alley  of  medieval  cottages  that  branched  off  Wychford 
High  Street.  Mysterious  lattices  blinked  at  him,  and 
presently  he  felt  the  wind  coming  fresh  in  his  face  as  he 
skirted  the  churchyard.  The  road  continued  past  the 
back  of  a  long  row  of  almshouses,  and  when  he  saw  the 
pillared  gate  of  the  Rectory  drive,  over  which  high  trees 
were  moaning  darkly,  Guy  wondered  if  he  were  going  to 
a  large  dinner-party.  No  word  had  been  said  of  any  one 
else's  coming,  but  with  Mrs.  Grey's  vagueness  that  por- 
tended nothing.  He  hoped  that  he  would  be  the  only 
guest,  and,  swinging  his  lantern  with  a  pleased  expectancy, 
he  passed  down  the  drive.  Suddenly  a  figure  materialized 
from  the  illumination  he  was  casting  and  hailed  him  with 
a  questioning  "hullo?" 

"Hullo,"  Guy  responded. 

"Oh,  beg  your  pardon,"  exclaimed  the  other.  "I 
thought  it  was  Willsher." 

"My  name's  Hazlewood,"  said  Guy,  a  little  stiffly. 

"Mine's  Brydone.     We  may  as  well  hop  in  together." 

Guy  rather  resented  the  implication  of  this  birdlike  in- 
trusion in  company  with  the  doctor's  son,  a  lanky  youth 
whom  he  had  often  noticed  slouching  about  Wychford 
in  a  cap  ostensibly  alive  with  artificial  flies.  Apparently 
Willsher  must  also  be  expected,  against  whom  Guy  had 
already  conceived  a  violent  prejudice  dating  from  the 
time  he  called  at  his  father's  office  to  sign  the  agreement 
for  the  tenancy  of  Flashers  Mead.  It  was  of  ill  augury 
that  the  Greys  should  apparently  be  supposing  that  he 
would  make  a  trio  with  Brydone  and  Willsher. 

"Brought  a  lantern,  eh?"  said  Brydone. 

"Yes,  this  is  a  lantern,"  Guy  answered,  coldly. 

"You'll  never  see  me  with  a  lantern,"  Brydone  declared. 

42 


\ 
AUTUMN 

Guy  would  have  liked  to  retort  that  he  hoped  he  would 
never  even  see  Brydone  without  one.  But  he  contented 
himself  by  saying,  with  all  that  Balliol  could  bring  to  his 
aid  of  crushing  indifference: 

"Oh,  really?" 

Somebody  behind  them  was  running  down  the  drive 
and  shouting,  "Hoo-oo,"  in  what  Guy  considered  a  very 
objectionable  voice.  It  probably  was  Willsher. 

"Hullo,  Charlie,"  said  Brydone. 

"Hullo,  Percy,"  said  Willsher,  for  it  was  he. 

"Know  this  gentleman?     Mr.  Hazlewood?" 

"Only  officially.  Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  the  new- 
comer. 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  Guy.  He  felt  furious  to  think 
that  the  Greys  would  suppose  he  had  arranged  to  arrive 
with  these  two  fellows. 

"Done  any  fishing  yet?"  asked  Brydone. 

"No,  not  yet,"  said  Guy. 

"Well,  your  bit  of  river  has  been  spoilt.  Old  Burrows 
let  every  one  go  there.  But  when  you  want  some  good 
fishing,  Willsher  and  I  rent  about  a  mile  of  stream  further 
up  and  we'll  always  be  glad  to  give  you  a  day.  Eh, 
Charlie?" 

Charlie  replied  with  much  cordiality  that  Percy  had 
taken  the  very  words  of  invitation  out  of  his  mouth;  and 
Guy,  unable  any  longer  to  be  frigid,  said  that  he  had  some 
books  at  which  they  might  possibly  care  to  come  and 
look  one  afternoon.  Mr.  Brydone  and  Mr.  Willsher  both 
declared  they  would  be  delighted,  and  the  latter  added 
in  the  friendliest  way  that  he  knew  an  old  woman  in 
Wychford  who  was  very  anxious  to  sell  a  Milton  war- 
ranted to  be  a  hundred  years  old  at  least.  Was  that 
anything  in  Mr.  Hazlewood's  way?  Guy  explained  that 
a  Milton  of  so  recent  a  date  was  not  likely  to  be  much  in 
his  way,  and  Mr.  Brydone  remarked  that  no  doubt  if  it 
had  been  a  Stilton  it  would  have  been  another  matter. 
His  friend  laughed  very  heartily  indeed  at  this  joke,  and 

43 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

in  an  atmosphere  of  almost  hilarious  good-fellowship,  that 
was  to  Guy  still  a  little  mortifying,  they  rang  the 
Rectory  bell. 

None  of  the  family  had  reached  the  drawing-room  when 
they  were  shown  in,  and  Guy  was  afraid  they  were  rather 
early. 

"Always  like  this,"  said  Brydone.  "Absolutely  no 
notion  of  time.  Shouldn't  be  surprised  if  we  had  to  wait 
another  quarter  of  an  hour.  Known  them  for  years,  and 
they've  always  been  like  this.  Eh,  Charlie?" 

The  solicitor's  son  shook  his  head  gravely.  He  seemed 
to  feel  that  as  a  man  of  business  he  should  display  a  slight 
disapproval  of  such  a  casual  family. 

"Ever  since  I  was  a  kid  I  can  remember  it,"  he  said. 

Guy  tried  to  tell  himself  that  all  this  talk  of  intimacy 
was  merely  due  to  the  accidental  associations  of  country 
life  over  many  years.  But  it  was  with  something  very 
like  apprehension  that  he  waited  for  the  Greys  to  come 
down.  It  would  be  dreadful  to  find  that  Brydone  and 
Willsher  had  a  status  in  the  Rectory.  When,  however, 
their  hosts  appeared,  Guy  realized  with  a  tremendous  re- 
lief that  Brydone  and  Willsher  obviously  existed  outside 
his  picture  of  the  Rectory.  To  be  sure,  they  were  Charlie 
and  Percy  to  Monica,  Margaret,  and  Pauline;  but  galling 
as  this  was,  Guy  told  himself  that  after  a  lifelong  ac- 
quaintance nothing  else  could  be  expected. 

It  pleased  Guy  really  that  the  dinner  was  not  a  great 
success,  for  he  was  able  to  fancy  that  the  Greys  were 
encumbered  by  the  presence  of  Brydone  and  Willsher. 
Monica  was  silent;  Margaret  was  deliberately  talking 
about  things  that  could  not  possibly  interest  either  of  the 
young  men;  and  Pauline  was  trying  to  save  the  situation 
by  wild  enthusiasms  which  were  continually  being  re- 
pressed by  her  sisters.  Mrs.  Grey  alternated  between 
helping  to  check  Pauline  and  behaving  in  exactly  the  same 
way  herself.  As  for  the  Rector,  he  sat  silent  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  Guy  wished  regretfully,  when  the 

44 


AUTUMN 

time  came  to  depart,  that  he  could  have  stayed  another 
few  minutes  to  mark  his  superiority  to  the  other  guests; 
but  alas,  he  was  still  far  from  that  position,  and  no  doubt 
be  would  never  attain  to  it. 

"Oh,  have  you  brought  a  lantern?"  asked  Pauline, 
excitedly,  in  the  hall.  "Oh,  I  wish  I  could  walk  back 
with  you.  I  love  lantern-light." 

"Pauline!  Pauline!  Do  think  what  you're  saying," 
Mrs.  Grey  protested. 

"I  like  lantern-light,  too,"  Margaret  proclaimed. 

"When  you  come  to  see  us  again,"  said  Pauline,  "will 
you  bring  your  dog?" 

"Oh,  I  say,  shall  I?"  asked  Guy,  flushing  with  pleasure. 

"Such  a  lamb,  Margaret,"  said  Pauline,  kissing  her 
sister  impulsively  and  being  straightly  reproved  for  doing 
so. 

The  good-nights  were  all  said,  and  Guy  walked  up  the 
drive  with  Brydone  and  Willsher. 

"Queer  family,  aren't  they?"  commented  the  doctor's 
son. 

"Extraordinarily  charming,"  said  Guy. 

"I've  known  them  all  my  life,"  said  Willsher,  a  little 
querulously.  "And  yet  I  never  seem  to  know  them  any 
better." 

Guy  was  so  much  elated  by  this  admission  that  he 
repeated  more  warmly  his  invitation  to  come  and  see  him 
and  his  books,  and  parted  from  the  two  friends  very 
pleasantly. 

Two  or  three  days  later  Guy  thought  he  might  fairly 
make  his  dinner  call,  and  with  much  forethought  did  not 
take  Bob  with  him,  so  that  soon  there  might  be  an  ex- 
cuse to  come  again  to  effect  that  introduction.  Mrs. 
Grey  and  Monica  were  out;  and  Guy  was  invited  to  have 
tea  in  the  nursery  with  Margaret  and  Pauline.  He  was 
conscious  that  an  honor  had  been  paid  to  him,  partly  by 
intuition,  partly  because  neither  of  the  girls  said  a  con- 
ventional word  about  not  going  into  the  drawing-room. 

45 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

He  felt,  as  he  sat  in  that  room  fragrant  with  the  memories 
of  what  must  have  been  an  idyllic  childhood,  the  thrill 
that,  as  a  child,  he  used  to  feel  when  he  read,  "  The  Queen 
was  in  her  parlor  eating  bread  and  honey."  This  was  such 
another  parlor  infinitely  secluded  from  the  world;  and 
he  thought  he  had  never  experienced  a  more  breathless 
minute  of  anticipation  than  when  he  followed  the  girls 
along  the  corridor  to  their  nursery.  The  matting  worn 
silky  with  age  seemed  so  eternally  unprofaned,  and  on 
the  wall  outside  the  door  the  cuckoo  calling  five  o'clock 
was  like  a  confident  bird  in  some  paradise  where  neither 
time  nor  humanity  was  of  much  importance.  Janet,  the 
elderly  parlor-maid,  came  stumping  in  behind  them  with 
the  nursery  tea-things;  and,  as  Guy  sat  by  the  small 
hob-grate  and  saw  the  moist  autumnal  sun  etherealize 
with  wan  gold  the  tattered  volumes  of  childhood,  the  very 
plum  cake  on  the  tea-table  was  endowed  with  the  ro- 
mantic perfection  of  a  cake  in  a  picture-book.  When  the 
sun  dipped  behind  the  elms  Guy  half  expected  that 
Margaret  and  Pauline  would  vanish  too,  so  exactly  seemed 
they  the  figures  that,  were  this  room  a  mirage,  he  would 
expect  to  find  within  as  guardians  of  the  rare  seclusion. 
Guy  never  could  say  what  was  talked  about  that  after- 
noon; for  when  he  found  himself  outside  once  again  in 
the  air  of  earth,  he  was  bemused  with  the  whole  experi- 
ence, as  if  suddenly  released  from  enchantment.  Out  of 
a  multitude  of  impressions,  which  had  seemed  at  the  time 
most  delicately  strange  and  potent,  only  a  few  incidents 
quite  commonplace  haunted  his  memory  tangibly  enough 
to  be  seized  and  cherished.  Tea-cups  floating  on  laughter 
against  that  wall-paper  of  berries,  birds,  and  daisies; 
a  pair  of  sugar-tongs  clicking  to  the  pressure  of  long,  white 
fingers  (so  much  could  he  recapture  of  Margaret);  crum- 
pets in  a  rosy  mist  (so  much  was  Pauline);  a  copper  kettle 
singing;  the  lisp  of  the  wind;  a  disarray  of  tambour-frames 
and  music,  these  were  all  that  kept  him  company  on  his 
way  back  to  Plashers  Mead  through  the  colorless  twilight. 

46 


AUTUMN 

Chance  favored  Guy  next  day  by  throwing  him  into 
the  arms  of  the  Rector,  who  asked  if  he  were  fond  enough 
of  flowers  to  look  round  the  garden  at  a  dull  season  of 
the  year.  Guy  was  so  much  elated  that,  if  love  of  flow- 
ers meant  more  frequent  opportunities  of  going  to  the 
Rectory,  he  would  have  given  up  poetry  to  become  a  pro- 
fessional gardener.  Of  course  there  was  nothing  to  see, 
according  to  the  Rector — a  few  nerines  of  his  own  cross- 
ing in  the  greenhouse;  a  Buddleia  auriculata  honeycomb- 
scented  in  the  angle  of  two  walls;  the  double  Michaelmas 
daisy,  an  ugly  brute  already  condemned  to  extermination; 
a  white  red-hot-poker,  evidently  a  favorite  of  the  Rector's 
by  the  way  he  gazed  upon  it  and  said  so  casually  Kniphofia 
multifiora,  as  if  it  were  not  indeed  a  treasure  blooming 
in  Oxfordshire's  dreary  Autumn. 

"Tulips  to  go  in  next  week,"  said  the  Rector,  rolling 
the  prospect  upon  his  tongue  with  meditative  enjoyment. 
"A  friend  of  mine  has  just  sent  me  some  nice  fellows  from 
Bokhara  and  Turkestan.  I  ought  to  get  them  in  this 
week,  but  Birdwood  must  finish  with  these  roses.  And 
I've  got  a  lot  of  clusiana  too  that  ought  to  be  in.  I  am 
going  to  try  her  in  competition  with  shrubbery  roots  and 
see  if  they'll  make  her  behave  herself." 

"Could  I  come  in  and  help?"  offered  Guy. 

"Well,  now  that  would  certainly  be  most  kind,"  said 
the  Rector;  and  his  thin,  handsome  face  lit  up  with  the 
excitement  of  infecting  Guy  with  his  own  passion.  "  But 
aren't  you  busy?" 

"Oh  no.     I  usually  work  at  night." 

So  Guy  came  to  plant  tulips,  and  from  planting  tulips 
to  being  asked  to  lunch  was  not  far,  and  from  finishing 
off  a  few  left  over  to  being  asked  to  tea  was  not  far,  either. 
Moreover,  when  the  tulips  were  all  planted  there  were 
gladioli  to  be  sorted  and  put  away.  Incidentally,  too,  the 
punt  had  to  be  calked  and  the  boat-house  had  to  be 
strengthened,  so  that  in  the  end  it  was  half-way  into 
November  before  Guy  realized  he  had  been  coming  to 

47 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

the  Rectory  almost  every  day.  The  more  he  came,  how- 
ever, the  more  he  was  fascinated  by  the  family.  They 
still  eluded  him,  and  he  was  always  aware,  particularly 
between  Margaret  and  Pauline,  of  a  life  in  which  as  yet 
he  hardly  shared.  At  the  same  time,  so  familiar  now 
were  the  inner  places  of  the  house  and  most  of  all  the 
nursery,  he  felt  as  if  happily  there  would  come  a  day 
when  to  none  of  the  sisters  would  he  seem  more  noticeable 
than  one  of  their  tumble-down  arm-chairs. 

Once  or  twice  he  stayed  to  dinner,  and  the  long  dining- 
room  with  the  sea-gray  wall-paper  and  curtains  of  the 
strawberry-thief  design  was  always  entered  with  a  par- 
ticular contentment  of  spirit.  The  table  was  very  large, 
for  somebody  always  forgot  to  take  out  the  extra  leaf 
put  in  for  a  dinner  sometime  last  summer,  or  perhaps 
two  summers  ago.  The  result  was  that  the  Rector  was 
far  away  in  the  shadows  at  one  end;  Mrs.  Grey  equally 
remote  at  the  other;  while  Guy  would  in  turn  be  near 
to  Margaret  or  Pauline  or  even  Monica  in  the  middle. 
Old-fashioned  glasses  with  spirals  of  green  and  white 
blown  in  their  stems;  silver  that  was  nearly  diaphanous 
with  use  and  age;  candlesticks  solid  as  the  Ionic  columns 
they  counterfeited,  or  tapering  and  fluted  with  branches 
that  carried  the  candle-flames  like  flowers,  everything 
seemed  as  if  it  had  been  created  for  this  room  alone. 
From  the  wall  a  lacquered  clock  as  round  and  big  and 
benign  as  the  setting  sun  wavered  in  the  coppery  shadows 
of  the  fire,  and  with  scarcely  the  sound  of  a  tick  showed 
forth  time.  Guy  had  never  appreciated  the  sacredness  of 
eating  in  good  company  until  he  dined  casually  like  this 
at  the  Rectory.  He  never  knew  what  he  ate  and  always 
accepted  what  was  put  before  him  like  manna;  yet  he 
was  always  conscious  of  having  enjoyed  the  meal,  and 
next  morning  he  used  to  face,  unabashed,  Miss  Peasey's 
tale  of  ruined  tapioca  which  had  waited  for  him  too  long. 

The  seal  of  perfection  was  generally  set  on  these  un- 
expected dinners  by  chamber-music  afterwards,  when 

48 


AUTUMN 

under  the  arched  roof  of  the  big  music-room  for  an  hour 
or  more  of  trios  and  quartets  Guy  contemplated  that 
family.  The  Greys  could  not  have  revealed  the  design 
of  their  life  with  anything  but  chamber-music,  and  setting 
aside  any  expression  of  inward  things,  thought  Guy,  how 
would  it  be  possible  to  imagine  them  more  externally 
decorative  than  seated  so  at  this  formal  industry  of  art? 
He  liked  best  perhaps  the  trios,  when  he  and  Mrs.  Grey, 
each  in  a  Caroline  chair  with  tall  wicker  back,  remained 
outside,  and  yet  withal  as  much  in  the  picture  as  two  don- 
ors painted  by  an  old  Florentine.  Monica  in  a  white 
dress  sat  straight  and  stiff,  with  pale-gold  hair  that  seemed 
the  very  color  of  the  refined,  the  almost  rarefied  accom- 
paniment upon  which  her  fingers  quivered  and  rippled. 
Something  of  her  own  coldness  and  remoteness  and  crys- 
talline severity  she  brought  to  her  instrument,  as  if  upon 
a  windless  day  a  fountain  played  forth  its  pattern.  Mar- 
garet's amber  dress  deepened  from  the  shade  of  Monica's 
hair,  and  Margaret's  eyes  glowed  deep  and  solemn  as 
the  solemn  depths  of  the  violoncello  over  which  she 
hung  with  a  thought  of  motherhood  in  the  way  she  cher- 
ished it.  Was  it  she,  wondered  Guy,  who  was  the  ulti- 
mate lure  of  this  house,  or  was  it  Pauline?  Of  her,  as 
she  swayed  to  the  violin,  nothing  could  be  said  but  that 
from  a  rose-bloomed  radiance  issued  a  sound  of  music. 
And  how  clearly  in  the  united  effect  of  the  three  sisters 
was  written  the  beauty  of  their  lives.  Guy  could  almost 
see  every  hour  of  their  girlhood  passing  in  orderly  pattern 
as  the  divine  Houris  dance  along  a  Grecian  frieze.  There 
was  neither  passion  nor  sentiment  in  the  music;  there  was 
neither  sorrow  nor  regret.  It  was  heartless  in  its  limpid 
beauty;  it  was  remote  as  a  cloud  against  the  sunrise; 
cold  as  water  was  it,  and  incommunicable  as  a  dream; 
yet  in  solitude  when  Guy  reconjured  the  sound  after- 
wards, it  returned  to  his  memory  like  fire. 

A  great  occasion  for  Guy  was  the  afternoon  when  first 
the  Greys  came  to  tea  with  him  at  Flashers  Mead.     Him- 

49 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

self  went  into  Wychford  and  bought  the  cakes,  so  many 
that  Miss  Peasey  held  up  her  hands  with  that  ridiculously 
conventional  gesture  of  surprise  she  used,  exclaiming: 

"Oh,  dear,  this  is  a  variety!" 

Guy  led  them  solemnly  round  the  house  and  furnished 
the  empty  rooms  with  such  vivid  descriptions  that  their 
emptiness  was  scarcely  any  longer  perceptible.  In  his 
own  room  he  waited  anxiously  for  judgment.  Margaret 
was,  of  course,  the  first  to  declare  an  opinion.  She  did 
not  like  his  curtains  nor  his  green  canvas,  and  she  was 
by  no  means  willing  to  accept  his  excuse  that  they  were 
relics  of  undergraduate  taste. 

"If  you  don't  like  them  now,  why  do  you  have  them? 
Why  not  plain  white  for  the  walls  and  no  curtains  at  all, 
until  you  can  get  ones  you  really  do  like?" 

Pauline  was  afraid  his  feelings  would  be  hurt  and  de- 
clared with  such  transparent  dishonesty  how  greatly  she 
loved  everything  in  the  room  that  Guy,  grateful  though 
he  was  to  her  intended  sweetness,  was  more  discouraged 
than  ever.  Monica  objected  to  his  having  Our  Lady  on 
the  mantelshelf,  and  would  not  admit  her  as  Saint  Rose 
of  Lima;  but  Guy  was  enough  in  awe  of  Monica  not  to 
justify  the  identification  with  Saint  Rose  by  his  desire  for 
a  poetic  apostrophe.  As  for  Mrs.  Grey,  she  behaved  as 
she  always  did  when  Monica  and  Margaret  were  being 
critical — that  is,  by  firing  off  "charmings!"  in  a  sort  of 
benevolent  musketry;  but  if  Guy  was  not  convinced 
by  her  "charmings!"  he  could  not  resist  her  when  she 
said: 

"I  think  Guy's  room  is  charming  .  .  .  charming!" 

He  felt  his  room  could  be  an  absolute  failure  if  from  the 
ashes  of  its  reputation  he  were  alluded  to  actually  for  the 
first  time  as  "Guy."  Gone  then  was  Mr.  Hazlewood; 
fled  were  those  odious  "misses."  He  turned  to  Pauline 
and  said,  momentously,  boldly: 

"I  say,  Pauline,  you  haven't  seen  my  new  kitten." 

She  blushed,  and  Guy  stood  breathless  with  the  attain- 

5° 


AUTUMN 

ment  of  the  first  peak.  Then  triumphantly  he  turned  to 
Mrs.  Grey: 

"Monica  and  Margaret  are  very  severe,  aren't  they?" 

How  easy  it  was,  after  all,  and  he  wished  he  had  ad- 
dressed them  directly  by  their  Christian  names  instead 
of  taking  refuge  in  a  timid  reference.  Now  all  that  was 
wanting  for  his  pleasure  was  that  Monica,  Margaret,  or 
Pauline  should  call  him  Guy.  He  wondered  which  would 
be  the  first.  And  vaguely  he  asked  himself  which  he 
wanted  to  be  the  first. 

Pauline  was  talking  to  Margaret  in  the  bay  window. 

"Do  you  remember,"  she  was  saying,  "when  Richard 
came  to  look  at  Plashers  Mead  and  we  pretended  he  was 
going  to  take  it?" 

Margaret  frowned  at  her  for  answer;  but  for  Guy  the 
afternoon  so  lately  perfected  was  spoiled  again;  and  when 
they  were  gone,  all  the  evening  he  glowered  at  phantom 
Richards  who,  whether  Adonises  or  Calibans,  were  all 
equally  obnoxious  and  more  than  obnoxious,  positively 
minatory.  Next  day  he  felt  he  had  no  heart  to  make 
an  excuse  to  visit  the  Rectory;  and  he  was  drearily  eating 
some  of  the  cakes  of  the  tea-party  when  Mr.  Brydone 
and  Mr.  Willsher  paid  him  their  first  call.  Guy  did  not 
think  they  would  appreciate  the  empty  rooms,  however 
eloquently  he  narrated  their  future  glories;  so  he  led  his 
visitors  forthwith  to  the  cakes,  listening  to  the  talk  of 
trout  and  jack.  After  a  while  he  asked  with  an  elaborate 
indifference  if  either  of  them  had  lately  been  round  to 
the  Rectory. 

"Too  clever  for  me,"  said  Brydone,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Besides,  Pauline  kicked  up  a  fuss  a  fortnight  ago  because 
we  asked  if  we  could  have  the  otter-meet  in  their  pad- 
dock." 

"They  were  never  sporting,  those  Rectory  kids,"  said 
Willsher,  gloomily. 

"Never,"  his  friend  agreed,  shaking  his  head.  "Do  you 
remember  when  Margaret  egged  on  young  Richard  Ford 

Si 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

to  punch  your  head  because  your  old  terrier  chivied  the 
Greys*  cat  round  the  churchyard?" 

"I  punched  his  head,  I  remember,"  said  Willsher  in 
wrathful  reminiscence. 

"Does  Richard  Ford  live  here?"  Guy  asked. 

"His  father's  the  Vicar  of  Little  Fairfield,  the  next 
parish,  you  know.  Richard's  gone  to  India.  He's  an 
engineer,  awfully  nice  chap  and  head  over  heels  in  love 
with  the  fair  Margaret.  I  believe  there's  a  sort  of  en- 
gagement." 

In  that  moment  by  the  lightening  of  his  heart  Guy 
knew  that  he  was  in  love  with  Pauline. 

Outside  the  November  night  hung  humid  and  op- 
pressive. 

"I  thought  we  should  get  it  soon,"  said  Willsher,  and 
as  the  two  friends  vanished  in  the  mazy  garden  Guy, 
looking  up,  felt  rain  falling  softly  yet  with  gathering  in- 
tensity. He  stood  for  a  while  in  his  doorway,  held  by 
the  whispering  blackness.  Then  suddenly  in  a  rapture 
of  realization  he  slammed  the  door  and,  singing  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  marched  about  the  hall.  Once  upon  a 
time  "to-morrow"  had  been  wont  to  drowse  him;  now 
the  word  sounded  upon  his  imagination  like  a  golden 
trumpet. 


WINTER 


DECEMBER 

THE  rain  which  began  the  day  after  the  Greys'  visit 
to  Flashers  Mead  went  on  almost  without  a  break 
for  a  whole  week.  December  with  what  it  could  bring 
of  deadness,  gloom,  and  moisture  came  drearily  down  on 
Wychford,  and  Pauline,  as  she  sat  high  in  her  window- 
seat,  lamented  the  interminable  soak. 

"I  can't  think  why  Guy  hasn't  been  near  the  Rectory 
lately,"  she  grumbled. 

"I  expect  he's  tired  of  us,"  said  Margaret. 

"You  don't  really  think  so,"  Pauline  contradicted. 
"You're  much,  much,  much  too  conceited  to  think  so 
really." 

Margaret  laughed. 

"You  don't  mind  a  bit  when  I  call  you  conceited," 
Pauline  went  on,  challenging  her  sister.  "I  believe  you're 
so  conceited  that  you're  proud  even  of  being  conceited. 
Why  doesn't  Guy  come  and  see  us,  I  wonder?" 

"Why  should  he  come?"  Monica  asked,  rather  severely. 
"Perhaps  he's  doing  some  work  for  a  change." 

"I  believe  he's  hurt,"  Pauline  declared. 

"Hurt?"  repeated  her  sisters. 

'"Yes,  because  you  were  both  so  frightfully  critical  of  his 
room.  Oh,  I  am  glad  that  Mother  and  I  aren't  critical." 

"Well,  if  he's  hurt  because  I  said  he  oughtn't  to  have 
an  image  of  Our  Lady  on  his  mantelshelf,"  said  Monica, 
"I  really  don't  think  we  need  bother  any  more  about 
him.  Was  I  to  encourage  him  in  such  stupid  little  Gothic 
affectations  ?" 

55 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Oh,  oh!"  cried  Pauline.  "I  think  he's  frightened  of 
you,  Monica  dear,  and  of  your  long  sentences,  for  I'm 
sure  I  am." 

"He  wasn't  at  all  frightened  of  me,"  Monica  asserted. 
"Didn't  you  hear  him  call  me  Monica?" 

"And  surely,"  Margaret  put  in,  "you  didn't  really 
like  those  stupid  mock  medieval  curtains.  No  design, 
just  a  lot  of  meaningless  fleurs-de-lys  looking  like  spots. 
It's  because  I  think  Guy  has  got  a  glimmering  of  taste 
that  I  gave  him  my  honest  opinion.  Otherwise  I  shouldn't 
have  bothered." 

"No,  I  didn't  like  the  curtains,"  Pauline  admitted. 
"But  I  thought  they  were  rather  touching.  And,  oh, 
my  dears,  I  can't  tell  you  how  touching  I  think  the  whole 
house  is,  with  that  poor  woman  squeezing  her  way  about 
that  enormous  kitchen  furniture!" 

Pauline  looked  out  of  the  window  as  she  spoke,  and 
there  at  last  was  Guy,  standing  on  the  lawn  with  her 
father,  who  was  explaining  something  about  a  root  which 
he  held  in  his  hand.  On  the  two  of  them  the  rain  poured 
steadily  down.  Pauline  threw  up  the  sash  and  called 
out  that  they  were  to  come  in  at  once. 

"I  am  glad  he's  .  .  .  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Mar- 
garet?" she  asked,  as  she  saw  her  sister  looking  at  her 
with  an  expression  of  rather  emphatic  surprise. 

"Really,"  commented  Margaret.  "I  shouldn't  have 
thought jt  was  necessary  to  soothe  his  ruffled  feelings  by 
giving  him  the  idea  that  you've  been  watching  at  the 
window  all  the  week  for  his  visit." 

"Oh,  Margaret,  you  are  unkind,"  and,  since  words 
would  all  too  soon  have  melted  into  tears,  Pauline  rushed 
from  the  nursery  away  to  her  own  white  fastness  at  the 
top  of  the  house.  She  did  not  pause  in  her  headlong 
flight  to  greet  her  mother  in  the  passage;  nor  even 
when  she  entangled  herself  in  Janet's  apron  could  she 
say  a  word. 

"Good  gracious,  Miss  Pauline!"  gasped  Janet.  "And 

56 


WINTER 

only  just  now  the  cat  went  and  run  between  my  legs  in 
the  hall." 

Pauline's  bedroom  was  immediately  over  the  nursery; 
but  so  roundabout  was  the  construction  of  the  Rectory 
that,  to  reach  the  one  from  the  other,  all  sorts  of  corridors 
and  twisting  stairways  had  to  be  passed;  and  when  finally 
she  flung  herself  down  in  her  small  arm-chair  she  was 
breathless.  Soon,  however,  the  tranquillity  of  the  room 
restored  her.  The  faded  blue  linen,  so  cool  to  her  cheeks, 
quieted  all  the  passionate  indignation.  On  the  wall  Saint 
Ursula,  asleep  in  her  bed,  seemed  inconsistent  with  a  proud 
rage;  nor  did  Tobit,  laughing  in  the  angel's  company,  en- 
courage her  to  sulk.  Therefore,  almost  before  Guy  had 
taken  off  his  wet  overcoat,  Pauline  had  rushed  down- 
stairs again,  had  kissed  Margaret,  and  had  put  three 
stitches  in  the  tail  of  the  scarlet  bird  that  occupied  her 
tambour-frame.  Certainly  when  he  came  into  the  draw- 
ing-room she  was  as  serene  as  her  two  sisters,  and  much 
more  serene  than  Mrs.  Grey,  who  had  just  discovered 
that  she  had  carefully  made  the  tea  without  a  spoonful 
in  the  pot,  besides  mislaying  a  bottle  of  embrocation  she 
had  spent  the  afternoon  in  finding  for  an  old  parishioner's 
rheumatism. 

Pauline,  however,  soon  began  to  worry  herself  again 
because  Guy  was  surely  avoiding  her  most  deliberately, 
and  not  merely  avoiding  her,  but  paying  a  great  deal  of 
attention  to  Margaret.  Of  course  she  was  glad  for  him 
to  like  Margaret,  but  Richard  out  in  India  must  be  con- 
sidered. She  could  not  forget  that  promise  she  had  made 
to  Richard  last  June,  when  they  were  paddling  up-stream 
into  the  sunset.  Guy  was  charming;  in  a  way  she  could 
be  almost  as  fond  of  him  as  of  Richard,  but  what  would 
she  say  to  Richard  if  she  let  Guy  carry  ofF  Margaret? 
Besides,  it  was  unkind  not  to  have  a  word  for  her  when 
she  was  always  such  a  good  listener  to  his  tales  of  Miss 
Peasey,  and  when  they  could  always  laugh  together  at 
the  same  absurdities  of  daily  life.  Perhaps  he  had  felt 
5  57 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

that  Margaret,  who  had  been  so  critical  over  his  curtains, 
must  be  propitiated — and  yet  now  he  was  already  going 
without  a  word  to  herself;  he  was  shaking  hands  with 
her  so  formally  that,  though  she  longed  to  tease  him  for 
wearing  silk  socks  with  those  heavy  brogues,  she  could 
not.  He  seemed  to  be  angry  with  her  .  .  .  surely  he  was 
not  angry  because  she  had  nailed  him  from  the  window? 

"What  was  the  matter  with  Guy?"  she  asked  when  he 
was  gone,  and,  when  everybody  looked  at  her  sharply, 
Pauline  felt  herself  on  fire  with  blushes,  made  a  wild 
stitch  in  the  tail  of  the  scarlet  bird,  and  then  rushed 
away  to  look  for  the  lost  embrocation,  refusing  to  hear 
when  they  called  after  her  that  Mother  had  been  sitting 
on  it  all  the  afternoon. 

The  windows  along  the  corridors  were  inky  blue,  almost 
turning  black,  as  she  stared  at  them,  half  frightened  in 
the  unlighted  dusk;  outside,  the  noise  of  the  rain  was 
increasing  every  moment.  She  would  sit  up  in  her  bed- 
room till  dinner-time  and  write  a  long  letter  to  India. 
By  candle-light  she  wrote  to  Richard,  seated  at  the  small 
desk  that  was  full  of  childish  things. 

WYCHFORD  RECTORY,  OXEN.     Tuesday. 

MY  DEAR  RICHARD, — Thank  you  for  your  last  letter,  which 
was  very  interesting.  I  should  think  your  bridge  was  wonder- 
ful. Will  you  come  back  to  England  when  it's  finished  ?  There 
is  not  much  to  tell  you  except  that  a  man  called  Guy  Hazlewood 
has  taken  Flashers  Mead.  He  is  very  nice,  or  else  I  should 
have  hated  him  to  take  the  house  you  wanted.  He  is  very 
tall — not  so  tall  as  father,  of  course — and  he  is  a  poet.  He  has 
a  very  nice  bobtail  and  a  touching  housekeeper  who  is  deaf. 
Bird  wood  likes  him  very  much;  so  I  expect  you  would,  too. 
Birdwood  wants  to  know  if  it's  true  that  people  in  India — oh, 
bother,  now  I've  forgotten  what  it  was,  only  he's  got  a  bet  with 
Godbold's  nephew  about  it.  Guy — you  mustn't  be  jealous  that 
we  call  him  Guy  because  he  really  is  very  nice — has  just  been 
in  to  tea.  Margaret  is  a  darling,  but  I  wish  you'd  take  my 
advice  and  write  more  about  her  when  you  write.  Of  course  I 
don't  know  what  you  do  write,  and  I'm  sure  she  really  is  in- 

58 


WINTER 

terested  in  your  bridge,  but  of  course  you  must  remember  that 
she's  not  used  to  the  kind  of  bridges  you're  building.  But 
she's  a  darling  and  I'm  simply  longing  for  you  to  be  married 
so  that  I  can  come  and  stay  with  you  when  I'm  an  old  maid 
which  I've  quite  made  up  my  mind  I'm  going  to  be.  Guy  has 
been  gardening  with  Father  a  good  deal.  Father  says  he's 
fairly  intelligent.  Isn't  Father  sweet?  He  drank  your  health 
at  dinner  the  other  night  without  anybody's  reminding  him  it 
was  your  birthday.  I  think  Guy  likes  Monica  best.  I  don't 
think  he  cares  at  all  for  Margaret  except  of  course  he  must  ad- 
mire her — Margaret  is  such  a  darling!  Oh,  a  merry  Christmas 
because  it  will  be  Christmas  before  you  get  this  letter.  Percy 
Brydone  and  Charlie  Willsher  came  to  dinner  last  month.  They 
were  so  touching  and  bored. 

Lots  of  love  from  Your  loving 

PAULINE. 

Don't  forget  about  writing  to  Margaret  more  about  herself. 

Pauline  put  the  letter  in  its  crackling  envelope  with  a 
sigh  for  the  unformed  hand  in  which  it  was  written. 
Nothing  brought  home  to  her  so  nearly  as  this  hand- 
writing of  hers  the  muddle  she  was  always  apt  to  make 
of  things.  How  it  sprawled  across  the  page,  so  unlike 
Monica's  that  was  small  and  neat  and  exquisitely  formed, 
or  Margaret's  that  was  decorated  with  fantastic  and  beau- 
tiful affectations  of  manner.  It  was  obvious,  of  course, 
that  her  sisters  must  always  be  the  favorites  of  everybody, 
but  it  had  been  rather  unkind  of  Guy  to  avoid  her  so 
obviously  to-day.  Richard  had  always  realized  that 
even  if  she  were  impulsive  and  foolish  she  was  also  tre- 
mendously sympathetic. 

"For  I  really  am  sympathetic,"  she  assured  her 
image  in  the  glass,  as  she  tried  to  make  the  light-brown 
hair  look  tidy  enough  to  escape  Margaret's  remon- 
strances at  dinner.  If  Guy  were  hopelessly  in  love  with 
Margaret,  how  sympathetic  she  would  be;  and  she  would 
try  to  explain  to  him  how  interesting  an  unhappy  love- 
affair  always  made  people.  For  instance,  there  was  Miss 

59 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Verney,  whom  everybody  thought  was  just  a  cross  old 
maid;  but  if  they  had  only  seen,  as  she  had  seen,  that 
cracked  miniature,  what  romance  even  her  cats  would 
possess!  She  must  take  Guy  to  see  Miss  Verney  or  bring 
Miss  Verney  to  see  Guy;  a  meeting  must  somehow  be 
arranged  between  these  two,  who  would  surely  be  drawn 
together  by  their  misfortunes  in  love.  Guy  was  exactly 
\  the  person  whom  an  unhappy  love-affair  would  become. 
It  would  be  so  interesting  in  ten  years'  time,  when  she 
would  be  nearly  thirty  and  old  enough  to  be  Guy's  con- 
fidante without  anybody's  interference,  to  keep  back  the 
inquisitive  world  from  Flashers  Mead.  No  doubt  by  then 
Guy  would  be  famous;  he  always  spoke  with  such  con- 
fidence of  fame.  Monica  and  Margaret  would  both  be 
married,  and  she  would  still  be  living  at  the  Rectory  with 
her  father  and  mother.  Pauline,  as  she  pictured  the 
future,  saw  no  change  in  them,  but  rather  sacrificed  to 
the  ravages  of  time  her  own  appearance  and  Guy's,  so 
that  at  thirty  she  fancied  both  herself  and  him  as  already 
slightly  gray.  The  gong  sounded  from  the  depths  of  the 
house,  and  hastily  she  snatched  from  her  wardrobe  the 
first  frock  she  found;  it  happened  to  be  a  white  one, 
more  suitable  to  June  than  to  December,  with  a  skirt  of 
many  flounces  all  stiffly  starched.  After  rustling  down 
passages  and  stairs  she  reached  the  dining-room  just  as 
the  others  were  going  in  to  dinner. 

"Pauline,  how  charming  you  look  in  that  frock!"  her 
mother  exclaimed.  "Why,  it's  like  Summer  just  to  see 
you!" 

Pauline  was  very  happy  that  night  because  her  mother 
and  sisters  petted  her  with  the  simple  affection  for  which 
she  was  always  longing. 

The  next  day  seemed  fine  enough  to  justify  Mrs.  Grey, 
Margaret,  and  Monica  in  making  an  expedition  into  Ox- 
ford to  see  about  Christmas  presents;  and  in  the  after- 
noon, while  Pauline  was  sitting  alone  in  the  nursery,  Guy 
was  shown  in  by  Janet.  Pauline  felt  very  shy  and 

60 


WINTER 

blushful  when  she  met  him  so  intimately  as  this,  after  all 
her  plans  for  him  on  the  night  before.  He,  too,  seemed 
ill  at  ease,  and  she  was  sadly  positive  he  missed  Margaret. 
The  sense  of  embarrassment  lasted  until  tea-time,  when 
Janet  came  in  to  say  that  the  Rector,  hearing  of  Mr. 
Hazlewood's  arrival,  had  decided  to  have  tea  in  the 
nursery. 

"Oh,  what  fun!"  cried  Pauline,  clapping  her  hands. 
"Janet,  do  give  him  the  mug  with  'A  PRESENT  FOR  A  GOOD 
BOY'  on  it!" 

"Dear  me,  Miss  Pauline,  what  things  you  do  think 
of,  I  do  declare.  Well,  did  you  ever?  Tut-tut!  Fancy, 
for  your  father,  too!" 

Nevertheless  Janet  sedately  put  the  mug  on  the  tray. 
When  she  was  gone  Pauline  turned  to  Guy  and  said: 

"I'm  sure  Father  thinks  he  ought  to  come  and  chaperon 
us.  Isn't  he  sweet?" 

Presently  the  Rector  appeared,  looking  very  tall  in  the 
low  doorway.  He  nodded  cheerfully  to  Guy: 

"Seen  Vartani?  You  know  he's  that  pale,  blue  fellow 
from  Nazareth.  Very  often  he's  a  washy  lilac,  but  this 
is  genuinely  blue." 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  noticed  it — him,  I  mean,"  said 
Guy,  apologetically. 

"Oh,  Father,  of  course  he  didn't!  It's  a  tiny  iris,"  she 
explained  to  Guy,  "and  Father  puts  in  new  roots  every 
year.  .  .  ." 

"Bulbs,  my  dear,  bulbs,"  corrected  Mr.  Grey.  "It's 
one  of  the  Histrio  lot." 

"Well,  bulbs.  And  every  year  one  flower  comes  out 
in  the  middle  of  the  Winter  rain  and  lasts  about  ten 
minutes,  and  then  all  the  Summer  Birdwood  and  Father 
grub  about  looking  for  the  bulb,  which  they  never  find, 
and  then  Father  gets  six  new  ones." 

They  talked  on,  the  three  of  them,  about  flowery  sub- 
jects while  the  Rector  drank  his  tea  from  the  mug  with- 
out a  word  of  comment  on  the  inscription.  Then  he  went 

61 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

off  to  write  a  letter,  and  Guy,  with  a  regretful  glance  at 
the  room,  supposed  he  ought  to  go. 

" Oh  no !  Stay  a  little  while,"  said  Pauline.  "Look,  it's 
raining  again." 

It  was  only  a  shower  through  which  the  declining  sun 
was  lancing  silver  rays.  As  they  watched  it  from  the 
window  without  speaking,  Pauline  wondered  if  she  ought 
to  have  given  so  frank  an  invitation  to  stay  longer. 
Would  Margaret  have  frowned  ?  And  how  odd  Guy  was 
this  afternoon.  Why  did  he  keep  looking  at  her  so  in- 
tently as  if  about  to  speak,  and  then  turn  away  with  a 
sigh  and  nothing  said? 

"I  do  love  this  room,"  said  Guy  at  last. 

"I  love  it,  too,"  Pauline  agreed. 

"May  I  ask  you  something?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"You  spoke  to  Margaret  the  other  day  about  some  one 
called  Richard.  Do  you  like  him  very  much?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  Only  you  mustn't  ask  me  about  him. 
Please  don't.  I've  promised  Margaret  I  wouldn't  talk 
about  him.  Please,  please,  don't  ask  me  any  more." 

"  But  leaving  Margaret  out  of  it,  do  you  like  him  .  .  . 
well  .  .  .  very  much  better  than  me,  for  instance?" 

Guy  used  himself  for  comparison  with  such  an  as- 
sumption of  carelessness  as  might  give  the  impression 
that  only  by  accident  did  he  mention  himself  instead  of 
the  leg  of  the  table,  or  the  kitten. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  tell  you  that.  Because  if  I  said  I  liked 
you  even  as  much,  I  should  feel  disloyal  to  Richard,  and 
he's  the  best  friend  I've  got.  Oh,  do  let's  talk  about 
something  else.  Please  do,  Mr.  Hazlewood." 

"Oh,  look  here,  I'm  going!"  exclaimed  Guy;  and  he 
went  instantly. 

Pauline  felt  unhappy  to  think  she  had  hurt  his  feelings; 
but  he  should  not  expect  her  to  like  him  better  than 
Richard.  If  Richard  were  married  to  Margaret,  it  might 
be  different;  but  suppose  that  Margaret  fell  in  love  with 

62 


WINTER 

Guy?  Pauline  felt  her  heart  almost  stop  beating  at  the 
notion,  and  she  made  up  her  mind  that  if  such  a  calamity 
befell  it  would  be  entirely  her  fault.  The  idea  that  she 
should  so  betray  Richard's  confidence  made  her  miserable 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Yet,  though  she  was  un- 
happy about  Richard,  it  was  always  the  picture  of  Guy 
hurrying  from  the  nursery  and  his  reproachful  backward 
look  that  was  visibly  before  her  mind.  And  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  she  woke  up,  it  was  with  a  strange  unsatis- 
factory feeling  such  as  she  had  never  known  before. 
Yesterday  came  back  to  her  remembrance  with  a  great 
emptiness,  seeming  to  her  a  day  which  had  somehow  never 
been  properly  finished.  Here  was  the  rain  again  raining, 
raining;  and  the  old  prospect  of  dreary  weather  that 
would  not  change  for  months. 

A  week  went  by  without  any  sign  of  Guy.  There  were 
no  amusing  evenings  now  when  he  stayed  to  dinner;  there 
were  no  delightful  days  of  planting  bulbs  in  the  garden; 
there  was  nothing  indeed  to  do  but  visit  bedridden  old 
ladies  to  whom  fine  or  bad  weather  no  longer  mattered. 
Yet  nobody  else  except  herself  seemed  at  all  unhappy 
about  it.  Actually  not  one  of  the  family  commented 
upon  Guy's  absence. 

"I  really  am  afraid  that  Margaret  is  heartless,"  said 
Pauline  to  her  image  in  the  glass.  "She  doesn't  seem  to 
care  a  bit  whether  he  is  here  or  not." 

Then  suddenly  the  weather  changed.  The  country 
sparkled  with  hoar-frost,  and  everybody  forgot  about  the 
rain,  asking  if  ever  before  such  weather  had  been  known 
for  Christmas.  Guy  was  invited  to  dinner  at  the  Rectory, 
and  Pauline  forgot  about  her  problems  in  the  pleasure 
that  the  jolly  afternoon  brought.  Self-consciousness 
under  the  critical  glances  of  Monica  and  Margaret  van- 
ished in  the  atmosphere  of  intimacy  shed  by  the  occasion. 
She  could  laugh  and  make  a  great  noise  without  being 
reproved,  and  Guy  himself  was  obviously  more  at  home 
than  he  had  ever  been.  There  seemed  a  likelihood  that 

63 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

now  once  again  the  progress  of  simple  friendship  would 
advance  undisturbed  by  the  complications  of  love,  and 
Pauline  was  glad  to  be  able  to  assure  herself  that  Guy 
did  not  that  afternoon  display  the  slightest  sign  of  a  hope- 
less passion  for  Margaret.  He  was  more  in  his  mood  and 
demeanor  of  last  month,  and  diverted  them  greatly  with  an 
account  of  struggling  to  explain  to  Graves,  the  deaf-and- 
dumb  gardener,  what  he  wanted  done  in  the  garden. 

"But  didn't  Birdwood  help  you?"  they  asked,  laughing. 

"Well,  Birdwood  showed  me  what  I  ought  to  do,"  said 
Guy.  "  But  it  seemed  such  a  rough  method  of  informa- 
tion that  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  adopt  it.  You  see,  as 
far  as  I  could  make  out,  it  consisted  of  pulling  up  a  cab- 
bage by  the  root,  hitting  Graves  on  the  head  with  it,  and 
then  nodding  violently.  That  meant  'clear  away  these 
cabbages.'  Or  if  Birdwood  wanted  to  say,  'Plant  broc- 
coli here,'  he  dug  Graves  in  the  ribs  with  the  dibbler  and 
rubbed  his  nose  in  the  unthinned  seedlings." 

"What  does  Miss  Peasey  say?"  asked  Pauline,  who 
was  in  a  state  of  the  highest  amusement,  because  deaf- 
and-dumb  Graves  was  one  of  the  villagers  who  lived  under 
her  particular  patronage. 

"Well,  at  first  Miss  Peasey  was  rather  huffed,  because 
she  thought  Graves  was  mocking  her  by  pretending  to  be 
deaf.  Now,  however,  she  comes  out  and  watches  him 
at  work  and  hopes  that  next  Spring  there'll  be  a  little 
more  variety  in  the  garden." 

The  sunny,  sparkling  weather  lasted  for  a  few  days 
after  Christmas;  and  one  morning  Pauline,  walking  by 
herself  on  Wychford  down,  met  Guy. 

"I  wondered  if  I  should  see  you,"  he  said. 

"Did  you  expect  to  see  me,  then?" 

"Well,  I  knew  you  often  came  here,  and  this  morning 
I  couldn't  resist  coming  here  myself." 

Pauline  felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  run  away;  and  yet 
most  unaccountably  the  impulse  led  her  into  walking 
along  with  Guy  at  a  brisk  pace  over  the  close-cropped 


WINTER 

glittering  turf.  Round  them  trotted  Bob  in  eddies  of 
endless  motion. 

"Listen,"  said  Guy.     "I'm  sure  I  heard  a  lark  singing." 

They  stopped,  and  Pauline  thought  that  never  was 
there  so  sweet  a  silence  as  here  upon  the  summit  of  this 
green  down.  Guy's  lark  could  not  be  heard.  There  was 
not  even  the  faint  wind  that  sighs  across  high  country. 
There  was  nothing  but  gorse  and  turf  and  a  turquoise 
sky  floating  on  silver  deeps  and  distances  above  the 
Winter  landscape. 

"When  the  gorse  is  out  of  bloom,  kissing's  out  of 
fashion,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  golden  spray. 

Pauline  had  heard  the  jingle  often  enough,  but  spoken 
solemnly  like  this  by  Guy  on  Wychford  down,  it  flooded 
her  cheeks  with  blushes,  and  in  a  sort  of  dear  alarm  the 
truth  of  it  declared  itself.  She  was  startlingly  aware  of 
a  new  life,  as  it  were  demanding  all  sorts  of  questions  of 
her.  She  felt  a  shyness  that  nearly  drove  her  to  run  away 
from  her  companion,  and  yet  at  the  same  moment  brought 
a  complete  incapacity  for  movement  of  any  kind,  an  in- 
capacity too  that  was  full  of  rapture.  She  longed  for 
him  to  say  something  of  such  convincing  ordinariness  as 
would  break  the  spell  and  prove  to  her  that  she  was  still 
Pauline  Grey;  while  with  all  her  desire  for  the  spell  to 
be  broken,  she  was  wondering  if  every  moment  she  were 
not  deliberately  offering  herself  to  enchantment. 

"Have  you  ever  felt,"  Guy  was  asking,  "a  long  time 
after  you've  met  somebody,  as  if  you  had  suddenly  met 
that  person  again  for  the  first  time?" 

Pauline  shook  her  head  vaguely.  Then  with  an  effort 
she  recaptured  her  old  self  and  said,  laughing: 

"But  then,  you  see,  I  never  think  about  anything." 

"Sleeping  beauty,  sleeping  beauty,"  said  Guy. 

And  with  an  abrupt  change  of  manner  he  began  to 
throw  sticks  for  Bob,  so  that  the  lucid  air  was  soon  loud 
with  continuous  barking. 

"I  wonder  if  we  shall  ever  meet  again  on  Wychford 

65 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

down  ?"  said  Guy,  as  together  they  swung  along  the  roll- 
ing highroad  towards  the  village. 

A  horse  and  trap  caught  them  up  before  Pauline  could 
answer  the  speculation,  and  Mr.  Godbold,  as  he  passed, 
wished  them  both  a  very  good  morning. 

"Godbold  seems  extraordinarily  interested  in  us,"  Guy 
remarked,  when  for  the  third  time  before  he  turned  the 
corner  Mr.  Godbold  looked  back  at  them. 

"Oh,  I  wonder  .  .  ."  Pauline  began,  expressing  with  her 
lips  sudden  apprehension. 

"You  mean  he  thought  it  strange  to  see  us  together?" 

"People  in  the  country  .  .  ."  she  began  again. 

"Why  don't  you  hurry  on  alone?"  Guy  asked.  "And 
I'll  come  in  to  Wychford  later." 

"Don't  be  stupid.  What  do  the  Wychford  people 
matter?  Besides,  I  should  hate  to  do  anything  like  that." 

She  was  half  angry  with  Guy  for  the  suggestion.  It 
seemed  to  cast  a  shadow  on  the  morning. 

When  Pauline  got  back  home  she  told  them  all  about 
her  meeting  with  Guy;  nobody  had  a  word  of  disapproval, 
not  even  Margaret,  and  the  faint  malaise  of  uncertainty 
vanished. 

After  tea,  however,  Mrs.  Grey  came  in,  looking  rather 
agitated. 

"Pauline,"  she  began  at  once,  "you  must  not  meet 
Guy  alone  like  that  again." 

"Oh,  darling  Mother,  you  are  looking  so  pink  and 
flustered,"  said  Pauline. 

"No,  there's  nothing  to  laugh  at.  Nothing  at  all.  I 
was  most  annoyed.  Four  of  the  people  I  visited  actually 
had  the  impertinence  to  ask  me  if  you  and  Guy  were 
engaged." 

Pauline  went  off  into  peals  of  laughter  and  danced 
about  the  room;  but  when  she  was  alone  and  thought 
again  of  what  the  gossips  were  saying,  she  suddenly  real- 
ized it  was  not  altogether  for  Richard's  sake  that  she  had 
dreaded  the  idea  of  Guy's  falling  in  love  with  Margaret, 


JANUARY 

P  LASHERS  MEAD  and  the  Rectory  were  not  the 
only  romantic  houses  in  Wychford.  Indeed,  the 
little  town  as  a  whole  had  preserved  by  reason  of  its 
remoteness  from  railways  and  important  highroads  the 
character  given  to  it  during  the  many  years  of  prosperity 
which  lasted  until  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First.  From 
that  time  it  had  slowly  declined;  and  now  with  a  stag- 
nation that  every  year  was  more  deeply  accentuated  by 
modern  conditions  it  was  still  declining.  New  houses 
were  never  built,  and  even  the  King's  Head,  a  pledge  of 
commercial  confidence  in  the  Hanoverian  succession, 
seemed  to  flaunt  with  an  inappropriate  modernity  its  red 
bricks  mellowed  by  the  passage  of  two  centuries.  Apart 
from  this  rival  to  the  Stag  Inn  the  fabric  of  Wychford 
was  uniformly  gray,  to  which,  notwithstanding  Miss 
Peasey's  declaration  of  sameness,  variety  was  amply 
secured  by  the  character  of  the  architecture.  Gables 
and  mullions;  oaken  eaves  and  corbels  carefully  orna- 
mented; latticed  oriels  and  sashed  bows;  roofs  of  steep 
unequal  pitch  to  which  age  had  often  added  strange  un- 
dulations; chimney  stacks  of  stone  and  Gothic  entries — 
all  these  gave  variety  enough;  and  if  the  whole  effect 
was  too  sober  for  Miss  Peasey's  taste,  the  little  town  on 
the  hillside  was  now  safe  for  ever  from  the  brightening 
of  the  dolls-house  spirit. 

Wychford  could  still  be  called  a  town,  for  it  possessed 
a  few  side-streets,  along  the  grass-grown  cobbles  of  which 
there  still  existed  many  houses  of  considerable  beauty 

67 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

and  dignity.  These  had  lapsed  into  a  more  apparent 
decay,  because  a  dwindling  population  had  avoided  their 
direct  exposure  to  the  bleak  country  and  had  left  them 
empty.  In  the  High  Street  this  melancholy  of  bygone 
fame  was  less  noticeable,  and  here  scarcely  a  house  was 
unoccupied.  Some  buildings,  indeed,  had  been  degraded 
to  unworthy  usages;  and  it  was  sad  to  see  Perpendicular 
fireplaces  filled  with  cheap  lines  in  drapery,  or  to  find  an 
ancient  chantry  trodden  by  pigs  and  fowls.  Generally, 
however,  the  High  Street  to  the  summit  of  its  steep  ascent 
had  an  air  of  sedate  prosperity  that  did  not  reflect  the 
reality  of  a  slow  depopulation. 

About  half-way  up  the  hill  on  the  other  side  of  the  town 
from  Flashers  Mead  and  the  Rectory  was  a  side-street 
called  Abbey  Lane  that,  instead  of  leading  to  open 
country,  was  bounded  by  a  high  stone  wall.  This  blocked 
the  thoroughfare  except  so  far  as  to  allow  a  narrow  path 
to  skirt  its  base  and  give  egress  along  some  untidy  cottage 
gardens  to  a  cross-road  farther  up  the  hill. 

In  the  middle  of  the  wall  confronting  the  street  two 
columns  surmounted  with  huge  round  finials  showed 
where  there  had  once  been  a  gate  wide  enough  to  admit 
a  coach.  Above  the  wall  a  belt  of  high  trees  obscured 
the  view  and  gave  a  dank  shadow  to  the  road  beneath. 
At  one  corner  a  small  wooden  wicket  with  a  half-obliter- 
ated proclamation  of  privacy  enabled  any  one  to  pass 
through  the  wall  and  enter  the  grounds  of  Wychford 
Abbey.  This  wicket  opened  directly  on  a  path  that 
wound  through  a  plantation  of  yews  interspersed  with 
tall  beeches  and  elms,  whose  overarching  tops  intensified 
even  in  Wintry  leaflessness  the  prevalent  gloom.  The  si- 
lence of  this  plantation  made  Wychford  High  Street  seem 
in  remembrance  a  noisy,  cheerful  place,  and  the  mere 
crackling  of  twigs  and  beech-mast  induced  the  visitor 
to  walk  more  quietly,  fearful  of  profaning  the  mysterious- 
ness  even  by  so  slight  an  indication  of  human  presence. 
The  plantation  continued  in  tiers  of  trees  down  the  hill 

68 


WINTER 

to  the  Greenrush,  which  had  been  deepened  by  a  dam  to 
support  this  gloom  of  overhanging  branches  with  slow 
and  solemn  stream.  The  path,  however,  kept  to  the 
level  ground  and  emerged  presently  upon  a  large  square 
of  pallescent  grass  the  farther  side  of  which  was  bounded 
by  a  deserted  house. 

There  were  no  ruins  of  the  ecclesiastical  foundation  to 
fret  a  Gothic  moonlight,  but  Wychford  Abbey  did  not 
require  these  to  justify  the  foreboding  approach;  and  the 
great  Jacobean  pile,  whose  stones  the  encroaching  trees 
had  robbed  of  warmth  and  vitality,  brooded  in  the  silence 
with  a  monstrous  ghostliness  that  was  scarcely  heightened 
by  the  signs  of  material  decay.  Nevertheless,  the  case- 
ments whose  glass  was  filmy  like  the  eyes  of  blind  men  or 
sometimes  diced  with  sinister  gaps;  the  cracks  and  fissures 
in  the  external  fabric;  the  headless  supporters  of  the 
family  coat;  and  the  roof  slowly  being  torn  tile  from  tile 
by  ivy — did  consummate  the  initial  impression.  Within, 
the  desolation  was  more  marked.  A  few  rotten  planks 
had  been  nailed  across  the  front  door,  but  these  had  been 
kicked  down  by  inquisitive  explorers,  and  the  hall  re- 
mained perpetually  open  to  the  weather.  In  some  of 
the  rooms  the  floors  had  jagged  pits,  and  there  was  not 
one  which  was  not  defiled  by  jackdaws,  owls,  and  bats. 
Strands  of  sickly  ivy,  which  had  forced  an  entrance 
through  the  windows,  clawed  the  dusty  air.  A  leprosy 
had  infected  the  plaster  ceilings  so  that  the  original 
splendor  of  their  moldings  had  become  meaningless  and 
scarcely  any  longer  discernible;  and  the  marble  of  the 
florid  mantelpieces  was  streaked  with  abominable  damp. 
The  back  of  the  house  seemed  to  go  beyond  the  rest  in 
the  expression  of  utter  abandonment.  Crumbling  walls 
with  manes  of  ivy  inclosed  a  series  of  gardens  rank  with 
docks  and  nettles  and  almost  impenetrable  on  account  of 
the  matted  briers.  As  if  to  add  the  final  touch  of  melan- 
choly the  caretaker  (for  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  the 
house  existed  ironically  a  caretaker)  had  cultivated  in 

69 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

this  wilderness  some  dreary  patches  of  potatoes.  Beyond 
the  forsaken  parterres  stretched  a  great  unkempt  shrub- 
bery where  laurels,  peterswort,  and  hollies  struggled  in 
disorderly  and  overgrown  profusion  for  the  pleasure  of 
numberless  birds,  and  where  a  wide  path  still  maintained 
its  slow  diagonal  down  the  hillside  to  the  river's  edge. 

Such  were  the  surroundings  Guy  chose  to  embower  the 
doubts  and  hesitations  that  followed  close  upon  the  morn- 
ing when  on  Wychford  down  he  had  been  so  nearly  tell- 
ing Pauline  he  loved  her.  Perhaps  the  almost  savage 
gloom  of  this  place  helped  to  confirm  his  profound  hope- 
lessness. A  black  frost  had  succeeded  the  sparkle  of 
Christmastide.  The  banks  of  the  river  in  such  weather 
were  impossible,  for  the  wind  came  biting  across  the  water- 
meadows  and  piped  in  the  withered  reeds  and  rushes  with 
an  intolerable  melancholy.  Here  in  the  grounds  of  Wych- 
ford Abbey  there  was  comparative  warmth,  and  the  deso- 
lation suited  the  unfortunate  end  he  was  predicting  for 
his  hopes.  To  begin  with,  it  was  extremely  improbable 
that  Pauline  cared  about  him.  His  assay  with  regard  to 
Richard  had  not  been  encouraging,  and  his  worst  fears 
of  being  too  late  for  real  inclusion  within  the  charm  of 
the  Rectory  were  surely  justified.  He  had  known  all 
along  how  much  exaggerated  were  his  ambitions,  and  he 
wished  now  that  in  the  first  moment  of  their  springing 
he  had  ruthlessly  strangled  them.  Moreover,  even  if 
Pauline  did  ultimately  come  to  care  for  him,  how  much 
farther  was  he  advanced  upon  the  road  of  a  happy  issue? 
It  were  presumptuous  and  absurd  with  only  £150  a  year 
to  propose  marriage,  and  if  he  gave  up  living  here  and 
became  a  schoolmaster  at  home,  he  knew  that  the  post 
would  be  made  conditional  upon  a  willingness  to  wait  as 
many  years  for  marriage  as  the  wisdom  of  age  decreed. 
Besides,  he  could  not  take  Pauline  from  Wychford  and 
imprison  her  at  Fox  Hall  to  dose  little  boys  with  Gregory's 
Powder  or  check  the  schedule  of  their  underclothing.  The 
only  justification  for  taking  Pauline  away  from  the  Rectory 

70 


WINTER 

would  be  to  make  her  immortal  in  poetry.  Yet  encourag- 
ing as  lately  one  or  two  epithets  had  certainly  been,  he 
was  still  far  from  having  written  enough  to  fill  even  a 
very  thin  book;  and  really  as  he  came  to  review  the  past 
three  months  he  could  not  say  that  he  had  done  much  more 
or  much  better  than  in  the  days  when  Flashers  Mead  was 
undiscovered.  Time  had  lately  gone  by  very  fast,  not 
merely  on  account  of  the  jolly  days  at  the  Rectory,  but 
also  because  weeks  that  were  terminated  by  weekly  bills 
seemed  to  be  endowed  with  a  double  swiftness. 

"I  really  must  eat  less  meat,"  said  Guy  to  himself. 
"It's  ridiculous  to  spend  eleven  shillings  and  sixpence 
every  week  on  meat  .  .  .  that's  roughly  £30  a  year.  Why, 
it's  absurd!  And  I  don't  eat  it.  Bother  Miss  Peasey! 
What  an  appetite  she  has  got." 

He  wondered  if  he  could  break  through  the  barrier  of 
his  housekeeper's  deafness  so  far  as  to  impress  upon  her 
the  fact  that  she  ate  too  much  meat.  She  spent  too  much, 
also,  on  small  things  like  pepper  and  salt.  This  reckless 
buying  of  pepper  and  salt  made  the  grocer's  bill  an 
eternal  irritation,  for  it  really  seemed  absurd  to  be  spend- 
ing all  one's  money  on  pepper  and  salt.  Yet  people  did 
live  on  £150  a  year.  Coleridge  had  married  with  less 
than  that  and  apparently  had  got  on  perfectly  well,  or 
would  have  if  he  had  not  been  foolish  in  other  ways. 
How  on  earth  was  it  done?  He  really  must  try  and  find 
out  how  much,  for  instance,  Birdwood  spent  every  week 
on  the  necessities  of  life.  That  was  the  worst  of  Oxford 
.  .  .  one  came  down  without  the  slightest  idea  of  the 
elementary  facts  of  domestic  economy.  There  had  been 
a  lot  of  soda  bought  last  week.  He  remembered  seeing 
it  in  one  of  those  horrid  little  slippery  tradesmen's  books. 
Soda?  What  was  it  for?  Vaguely  Guy  thought  it  was 
used  to  soften  water,  but  there  were  plenty  of  rain-tubs 
at  Flashers  Mead,  and  soda  must  be  an  unjustifiable 
extravagance.  Then  Miss  Peasey  herself  was  getting 
£18  a  year.  It  seemed  very  little — so  little,  indeed,  that 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

when  he  paid  her  every  month  he  felt  inclined  to  apologize 
for  the  smallness  of  the  amount,  but  little  as  it  was  it 
only  left  him  with  £132.  Knock  off  £30  for  meat  and  he 
had  £102;  £18  must  go  in  rent,  and  there  was  left  £84. 
Then  there  was  milk  and  bread  and  taxes  and  the  sub- 
scription to  the  cricket-club  and  the  subscription  to  all 
the  other  vice-presidencies  to  which  the  town  had  elected 
him.  There  was  also  Graves,  his  deaf-and-dumb  gar- 
dener, and  a  new  bucket  for  the  well.  Books  and  clothes, 
of  course,  could  be  obtained  on  credit,  but  even  so  some 
time  or  other  bills  came  in.  Guy  made  a  number  of 
mental  calculations,  but  by  no  device  was  he  able  to 
make  the  amount  required  come  to  less  than  £82.  That 
left  £2  for  Pauline,  and  then,  by  the  way,  there  was  the 
dog-license  which  he  had  forgotten.  Thirty-two  and  six- 
pence for  Pauline!  Guy  roamed  through  the  sad  arbors 
of  Wychford  Abbey  in  the  depths  of  depression,  and 
watched  with  a  cynical  amusement  the  birds  searching  for 
grubs  in  the  iron  ground.  He  began  to  feel  a  positive 
sense  of  injury  against  love  which  had  descended  with 
proverbial  wantonness  to  complicate  mortal  affairs.  He 
tried  to  imagine  the  Rectory  without  Pauline,  and  when 
he  did  so  all  the  attraction  was  gone.  Yet  distinctly 
when  he  had  first  met  the  Greys  he  had  not  thought 
more  often  of  Pauline  than  of  her  sisters.  What  perversity 
of  circumstance  had  introduced  love? 

"It's  being  alone,"  said  Guy.  "I  feed  myself  upon 
dreams.  Michael  was  perfectly  right.  Wychford  is  a 
place  of  dreams." 

He  would  cure  this  love-sickness.  That  was  an  idea 
for  a  sonnet.  Damn!  "I  attempt  from  love's  sickness  to 
fly."  It  need  not  be  said  again.  At  the  same  time, 
poem  or  not,  he  would  avoid  the  Rectory  and  shut  him- 
self close  in  that  green  room  which  Margaret  and  Monica 
had  thought  so  crude  with  undergraduate  taste.  If  this 
cold  went  on,  there  would  be  skating;  and  he  began  to 
picture  Pauline  upon  the  ice.  The  vision  flashed  like  a 

72 


WINTER 

diamond  through  these  gloomy  groves,  and  with  the 
soughing  of  the  skates  in  his  ears  and  the  thought  of 
Pauline's  hands  crisscross  in  his  own,  Guy's  first  attack 
on  love  ended  in  complete  surrender.  Skating  meant 
long  talks  with  never  a  curious  eye  to  cast  dismay;  and 
in  long  talks  and  rhythmic  motion  possibly  she  might 
come  to  love  him.  Guy's  footsteps  began  to  ring  out 
upon  the  iron-bound  walk,  and  of  all  the  sad  ghosts  that 
should  have  haunted  his  path  there  was  not  one  who 
walked  now  beside  him;  for,  as  he  dreamed  upon  the 
vision  of  Pauline,  the  melancholy  of  that  forsaken  place 
was  lightened  with  a  sort  of  April  exultation  and  the 
promise  of  new  life  to  gladden  the  once  populous  gardens 
where  lovers  might  have  been  merry  in  the  past. 

However,  when  he  was  back  in  his  house,  Guy's  earlier 
mood  returned,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  anew  not  to  go 
to  the  Rectory.  Nothing  would  do  for  him  but  the 
metaphysics  and  passion  of  Dr.  John  Donne;  and  on  the 
dreary  evening  when  the  frost  yielded  to  rain  before  there 
had  been  one  day's  skating,  Guy  was  as  near  as  any  one 
may  ever  have  been  to  conversing  with  that  old  lover's 
ghost  who  died  before  the  god  of  Love  was  born.  All 
his  plans  wore  mourning,  and  the  bills  that  week  rose 
two-and-sixpence-halfpenny  higher  than  their  highest 
total  so  far.  Guy  moped  in  his  green  library  and,  as  he 
read  through  the  manuscripts  of  poetry  that  with  the 
progress  of  the  night  seemed  to  him  worse  and  worse,  he 
wished  he  could  recapture  some  of  that  self-confidence 
which  had  carried  him  so  serenely  through  Oxford;  and 
he  asked  himself  if  Pauline's  love  would  endow  him  once 
more  with  that  conviction  of  ultimate  fame,  to  the  former 
safe  tenure  of  which  he  now  looked  back  as  from  a  dis- 
illusioned old  age. 

Another  week  passed,  and  Guy  wondered  what  they 

were  thinking  of  him  at  the  Rectory  for  his  neglect  of 

all   they   might  justly   suppose   had   been   offered   him. 

Absence  from  Pauline  did  not  seem  to  have  effected  much 

6  73 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

so  far  except  a  complete  paralysis  of  his  power  to  work 
with  that  diligence  he  had  always  preached  as  the  true 
threshold  of  art.  Perhaps  he  had  been  always  a  little 
too  insistent  upon  the  merit  of  academic  industry,  too 
conscious  of  a  deliberate  embarkation  upon  a  well-built 
career,  too  careful  of  mere  equipment  in  his  exploration  of 
Parnassus.  So  long  as  he  had  been  exercising  his  tech- 
nical accomplishment,  everything  had  seemed  to  be  ad- 
vancing securely  towards  the  moment  when  inspiration 
should  vitalize  the  promise  of  his  craftsmanship.  Now 
inspiration  was  at  hand,  and  accomplishment  had  be- 
trayed him.  These  effusions  of  restless  love  which  he 
had  lately  produced  were  surely  the  most  wretched  crip- 
ples ever  sent  to  climb  the  Heliconian  slope.  Guy 
looked  at  his  note-book  and  marked  how  many  apos- 
trophes, the  impulses  to  declaim  which  had  seemed  to 
scorch  his  imagination  with  bright  ardors,  had,  alas, 
failed  to  kindle  his  uninflammable  pencil.  He  derived  a 
transient  consolation  from  Browning's  "Pauline,"  which 
was  surely  as  inadequate  as  his  own  verse  to  celebrate 
the  name.  "Pauline,  mine  own,  bend  o'er  me"  That 
opening  half-line  was  the  only  one  which  moved  him. 
But,  after  all,  Browning  did  not  esteem  his  own  Pauline, 
and  had  written  it  when  he  was  twenty.  Himself  was 
twenty-two,  and  could  not  declare  his  passion  in  one 
lyric.  A  graceful  sonnet  for  his  father's  birthday  would 
not  compensate  for  this  dismaying  failure.  Moreover, 
in  rhymes,  thought  Guy,  Pauline  was  no  niggard;  and 
with  a  flicker  of  sardonic  humor  he  recalled  how  many 
Swinburne  had  found  for  Faustine. 

It  was  Godbold  who  fed  the  vexations  and  torments 
of  untried  love  with  the  bitterest  medicine  of  all.  He 
had  come  down  to  see  Guy  about  an  old  chair  that  had 
to  ;be  fetched  from  a  neighboring  village,  and,  when 
his  business  was  over,  seemed  inclined  to  chat  for  a 
while. 

"Have  you  ever  noticed,  Mr.  Hazlewood,"  he  began, 

74 


WINTER 

"as  there's  a  lot  of  people  in  this  world  who  know  more 
than  a  man  knows  himself?" 

Guy  indicated  that  the  fact  had  struck  him. 

"Well,  now,  just  because  I  happen  to  see  you  with 
Miss  Pauline  the  other  morning,  there's  half  a  dozen  wise 
gabies  in  Wychford  who've  almost  married  you  to  her 
out  of  hand." 

Guy  tried  not  to  look  annoyed. 

"Oh,  you  may  well  frown,  Mr.  Hazlewood,  for,  as  I 
said  to  them,  it's  nothing  more  than  nonsense  to  tie  up 
a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  just  because  they  hap- 
pen to  take  a  walk  together  on  a  fine  morning." 

"I  hope  this  sort  of  intolerable  gossip  isn't  still  going 
on,"  said  Guy,  savagely. 

"Oh,  well,  you  see,  sir,  Wychford  is  a  middling  place 
for  gossip.  And  if  it  wasn't  one  of  the  Miss  Greys  it 
would  be  some  other  young  miss  roundhereabouts.  Hu- 
man nature,  like  pigeons,  is  set  on  mating." 

"I  hope  you'll  contradict  this  ridiculous  rumor,"  said 
Guy. 

"Oh,  I  have  done  already.  In  fact,  I  may  say  that 
one  of  my  principles,  Mr.  Hazlewood,  is  to  contradict 
everything.  As  I  said  to  them,  when  they  was  talking 
about  it  in  the  post-office  the  other  night,  and  that  post- 
office  is  a  rare  place  of  gossip!  Perhaps  you've  noticed 
that  the  nosiest  man  in  a  town  always  gets  made  post- 
master? Where  had  I  got  to? — ah,  yes,  I  said  to  them, 
'You  know  a  great  lot  about  other  people's  business/  I 
said,  'but  when  I  tell  you  that  old  Mrs.  Mathers  who 
lives  in  the  last  cottage  but  one  in  Rectory  Lane  says  she's 
taken  particular  note  as  Mr.  Hazlewood  has  never  been 
near  the  Rectory  for  the  last  fortnight  unless  it  was  once 
when  she  heard  footsteps  and  hadn't  time  to  get  to  the 
window  to  see  who  it  was  on  account  of  the  kettle  being 
on  the  boil  at  that  moment,  where's  your  Holy  Matri- 
mony?' I  said.  With  that  up  speaks  Miss  Surge  from  the 
back  of  the  shop  whose  father  used  to  keep  the  King's 

75 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Head  before  he  dropped  dead  of  the  apoplexy  on  Shipcot 
platform.  'That  doesn't  say  he  hasn't  gone  round  by 
the  field  the  same  as  Mr.  Burrows's  servant  used  to  when 
she  was  being  courted  by  We'11-mention-no-names.'  'No, 
and  that  he  hasn't,  either,'  said  I,  smacking  the  counter, 
for  I  was  feeling  a  bit  angry  by  now  at  all  this  poking 
about  in  other  people's  business,  'that  he  hasn't,'  I  said, 
'because  the  Rectory  cook  asked  me  most  particular  if 
there  was  anything  the  matter  down  at  Flashers  Mead, 
seeing  as  Mr.  Hazlewood  hadn't  been  near  the  Rectory 
for  a  fortnight.  That  doesn't  look  like  Holy  Matrimony/ 
I  said,  and  with  that  I  walked  out  of  the  post-office. 
Mr.  Hazlewood,"  Godbold  concluded,  very  earnestly, 
"the  gossip  of  Wychford  is  something  as  no  one  would 
believe,  if  they  hadn't  heard  it,  as  I  have,  every  mortal 
day  of  my  life." 

Guy  could  have  laughed  on  his  own  account,  but  the 
notion  of  Pauline's  being  dragged  into  the  chatter  made 
him  furious.  Yet  what  could  he  do?  If  he  went  fre- 
quently to  the  Greys'  house  he  must  be  engaged,  accord- 
ing to  Wychford.  And  if  he  did  not  go  ... 

"I  suppose  they'll  be  saying  next  that  the  engagement 
has  been  broken  off,"  he  inquired,  with  cold  sarcasm. 

"Oh,  they  have  said  it.  Depend  upon  it,  Mr.  Hazle- 
wood, it  undoubtedly  has  been  said." 

It  began  to  appeal  to  Guy  as  extremely  undignified — 
the  way  in  which  he  had  let  Godbold  chatter  on  like  this. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  be  getting  back  to  my  work,"  he 
said,  curtly. 

"That's  right.  Work's  the  best  answer  to  talk.  Did 
you  feel  it  much  here  in  that  rainy  spell?" 

"The  meadows  were  a  bit  splashy,  of  course,  but  the 
water  never  got  anywhere  near  the  house." 

"But  it  will.  Don't  you  make  any  mistake.  It  will. 
Only,  of  course,  we've  had  a  dry  Autumn.  Why,  last 
June  year  Miss  Peasey  could  have  been  fishing  for  min- 
nows in  her  kitchen.  Now  that  seems  a  nice  upstanding 

76 


WINTER 

sort  of  woman.  A  Wesleen,  they  tell  me?  I  haven't  seen 
her  in  church  that  I  can  remember,  and  which  would  ac- 
count for  it.  But  I  never  talk  to  the  chapel  folk,  they 
being  that  uncivilized.  She's  rather  deaf,  isn't  she?" 

"Yes,»and  therefore  cannot  gossip,"  Guy  snapped. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Godbold,  doubtfully.  "Some 
of  the  most  unnatural  scandals  I  ever  heard  were  made 
by  deaf  women.  Though  that  doesn't  mean  I'm  saying 
Miss  Peasey  is  a  talker." 

"I'm  sure  she  isn't,"  Guy  agreed.  "Good  night,  Mr. 
Godbold." 

"  Good  night,  Mr.  Hazlewood.  Don't  you  be  discouraged 
by  the  gossip  in  Wychford.  I  always  say,  if  you  believe 
nothing  you  hear,  next  to  nothing  of  what  you  read,  and 
only  half  of  what  you  see,  no  one  can  touch  you.  Good 
night  once  more,  sir.  And  don't  you  fret  over  what 
people  say.  I  remember  they  once  said  I  tried  to  work 
a  horse  which  had  the  blind  staggers,  and  Mrs.  Godbold 
was  that  aggravated  she  went  and  washed  a  shirt  of  mine 
twice  over,  worrying  herself.  Good  night,  Mr.  Hazle- 
wood." 

This  time  the  red-bearded  carrier  of  Wychford  (not  an 
inappropriate  profession  for  him)  really  departed,  leaving 
Guy  in  a  state  of  considerable  resentment  at  the  thought 
of  the  Wychford  commentary. 

That  night  the  raw  drizzle  turned  to  snow;  and  when 
he  looked  out  of  his  window  next  morning  it  was  lying 
thick  over  the  country  and  was  making  his  bedroom 
seem  as  gray  as  the  loaded  clouds  above.  That  exhilara- 
tion of  a  new  landscape  which  comes  with  snow  drove  away 
some  of  Guy's  depression,  and  after  breakfast  he  went 
out,  curious  to  contemplate  its  effect  upon  the  Abbey. 
In  the  black  frost  the  great  pile  had  seemed  to  possess 
scarcely  more  substance  than  a  shredded  leaf;  and  when 
it  lay  sodden  beneath  the  dripping  trees,  a  manifest  decay 
had  made  extinction  infamous  with  the  ooze  of  a  rotting 
fungus.  The  weather  now  had  brought  a  strange  restora- 

77 


FLASHERS   MEAD 

tion  to  the  abandoned  house,  and  so  completely  had  the 
covering  of  snow  hidden  most  of  the  signs  of  dissolution 
that  Wychford  Abbey  seemed  no  longer  dead,  but  asleep 
in  the  quiet  of  a  Winter  morning.  The  lawn  in  front 
stretched  before  it  in  decent  whiteness,  and  the  veiling 
of  the  ragged,  unhealthy  grass  took  away  from  the  front 
of  the  house  that  air  of  wan  caducity,  endowing  the  stones 
by  contrast  with  tinted  warmth  and  richness.  The  de- 
crepit roof  was  hidden,  and  Wychford  Abbey  dreamed 
under  its  weight  of  snow  with  all  the  placid  romance  of 
a  house  on  a  Christmas  card.  The  dark  plantation  was 
deprived  of  its  gloom,  and  what  was  usually  a  kind  of 
haunted  stillness  was  now  aspectful  peace.  Guy  went 
over  the  crinching  ground  and  strolled  down  the  broad 
walk  through  the  shrubbery.  Everywhere  the  snow 
glistened  with  the  footprints  of  many  birds,  but  not  a 
single  call  broke  a  silence  which  was  cold  and  absolute 
except  for  the  powdery  whisper  of  the  snow  where  it  was 
sliding  from  the  holly  leaves. 

When  Guy  reached  the  bottom  of  the  shrubbery  he 
sat  down  on  a  fallen  trunk  by  a  backwater,  which  dried 
up  here  in  the  drift  of  dead  leaves;  and  he  watched  the 
surface  of  it  glazing  perceptibly,  yet  not  so  fast  but  that 
the  faint  motion  of  the  freezing  air  could  write  upon  the 
smoothness  a  tremulous  reticulation.  He  had  not  been 
resting  long  when  he  saw  Margaret  coming  towards  him 
down  the  walk,  and  with  so  light  a  tread  that  in  her  white 
coat  she  might  have  been  a  figment  created  for  his  fancy 
by  the  snow.  He  wondered  if  a  sense  of  the  added  beauty 
her  presence  gave  the  scene  were  in  her  mind.  Probably 
it  was,  for  Margaret  had  a  discreet  vanity  that  would 
never  gratify  itself  so  well  as  when  she  was  alone;  and 
plainly  she  must  suppose  herself  alone,  since  here  on  this 
snowy  morning  she  would  not  have  expected  to  meet  any- 
body. Guy  thought  it  would  be  considerate  to  draw  aside 
without  spoiling  her  dream,  whatever  the  subject  of  the 
meditation.  However,  as  he  rose  from  the  log  to  take 

78 


WINTER 

the  narrow  path  along  the  backwater  and  so  turn  home- 
ward across  the  fields  by  the  river,  Margaret  saw  him 
and  waved  with  a  feathery  gesture.  As  Guy  went  up 
the  path  to  greet  her  he  was  thinking  how  much  her  hair 
was  like  a  dark  leaf  that  had  shaken  off  the  snow,  so 
easily  might  her  blanched  attire  have  fallen  upon  her 
from  the  clouds;  then,  as  he  came  close,  every  charming 
fancy  was  suddenly  spoiled  by  a  remembrance  of  Wych- 
ford  gossip,  and  he  turned  hastily  round  to  see  if  there 
were  prying  glances  in  the  laurels. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  she  asked. 

"A  squirrel,"  said  Guy,  quickly.  He  would  not  have 
had  his  absence  from  the  Rectory  ascribed  to  any  fear  of 
gossip;  moreover,  since  a  meeting  with  Margaret  did  not 
make  his  conscience  the  thrall  of  public  opinion,  he  would 
not  have  her  discreet  vanity  at  all  impaired.  Therefore 
it  was  a  squirrel  he  saw. 

"We've  been  wondering  what  has  become  of  you,"  she 
said. 

"Well,  I've  been  working  rather  hard;  and  as  a  matter 
of  fact  I  was  going  to  the  Rectory  this  afternoon.  Isn't 
the  snow  jolly  after  the  rain  ?  Especially  here,  don't  you 
think?" 

She  nodded. 

"I've  got  to  go  and  visit  an  old  woman  who  lives  almost 
in  Little  Fairfield,  and  I  thought  I'd  avoid  as  much  as  I 
could  of  the  highroad." 

"  Shall  I  come  with  you  ?"  asked  Guy,  but  in  so  doubt- 
ful a  voice  that  Margaret  laughingly  declared  she  was 
sure  he  was  in  a  state  of  being  offended  with  the  Rectory. 

"Oh,  Margaret,  don't  be  absurd.     Offended?" 

"Over  the  curtains?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  if  it  wouldn't  betray  a  gross  insensibility  to 
your  opinion,  I  should  tell  you  I  thought  no  more  about 
what  you  said.  Besides,  we've  had  reconciling  Christ- 
mas since  then." 

"Ah,  but  you  see,  Pauline  is  always  impressing  on 

79 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Monica  and  me  our  cruelty  to  you,  and  by  this  time 
Mother  has  been  talked  into  believing  in  our  hard  and 
impenitent  hearts." 

"Pauline  is  .  .  ."  Guy  broke  off  and  saw  another 
squirrel.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak  of  Pauline, 
for  in  this  stillness  of  snow  he  felt  that  the  lightest  re- 
mark would  reveal  his  love;  and  there  was  in  nature  this 
morning  a  sort  of  suspense  that  seemed  to  rebuke  un- 
uttered  secrets. 

"Well,  as  you're  walking  with  me  to  Fairfield — or 
nearly  to  Fairfield — your  neglect  of  us  shall  be  forgiven," 
Margaret  promised.  "Here  we  are  out  of  the  warm  trees 
already.  I'm  glad  I  came  this  way,  though  I  think  it 
was  rather  foolish.  Look  how  deep  the  snow  seems  on 
that  field  we've  got  to  cross." 

"It  isn't  really,"  said  Guy,  vaulting  over  the  fence 
that  ran  round  the  confines  of  the  Abbey  wood. 

"Ah,  now  you've  spoiled  it,"  she  exclaimed.  But  Mar- 
garet did  not  pause  a  moment  to  regret  the  ruffling  of 
that  sheeted  expanse,  and  they  walked  on  silently, 
watching  the  toes  of  their  boots  juggle  with  the  snow. 

"It  generally  is  a  pity,"  said  Guy,  after  a  while. 

"What?" 

"Impressing  one's  existence  on  so  lovely  and  inviolate 
a  thing  as  this."  He  indicated  the  untrodden  field  in 
front  of  them. 

"But  look  behind  you,"  said  Margaret.  "Don't  you 
think  our  footprints  look  very  interesting?" 

"Interesting,  perhaps,"  Guy  admitted.  "Yet  foot- 
prints in  snow  never  seem  to  be  going  anywhere." 

"Now  I  know  quite  well  what  you're  doing,"  Mar- 
garet protested.  "You're  making  that  poor  little  wabbly 
track  of  ours  try  to  bear  all  sorts  of  mysterious  and  sym- 
bolic intensities  of  meaning.  Just  because  you're  feeling 
annoyed  with  a  sonnet,  footprints  in  the  snow  mustn't 
lead  anywhere.  Why,  Guy,  if  I  told  you  what  sentimental 
import  my  'cello  sometimes  gives  to  a  simple  walk  before 

80 


WINTER 

lunch  ...  I  mean,  of  course,  when  I've  been  playing 
badly." 

She  sighed,  and  Guy  wondered  if  the  violoncello  had 
been  used  with  as  little  reference  as  a  sonnet  to  the  real 
cause  of  the  mood. 

"Why  did  you  sigh  just  now?"  he  asked  after  another 
minute  or  two  of  silent  progress. 

"I  wonder  whether  I'll  tell  you.  No,  I  don't  think  I 
will.  And  yet  .  .  ." 

"And  yet  perhaps,  after  all,  you  will,"  said  Guy,  eagerly. 
"And  if  you  do,  I'll  tell  you  something  in  turn." 

"That's  no  bribe,"  said  Margaret,  laughing.  "You 
foolish  creature,  don't  you  think  I  know  what  you'll 
tell  me?" 

Guy  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  think  you  do.  You  may  suspect.  But  for 
that  matter,  so  may  I.  Isn't  what  you  might  have  told 
me  something  that  might  most  suitably  be  told  on  the 
way  to  Fairfield  ?" 

"You've  been  talking  about  me  to  Pauline,"  said 
Margaret,  angrily. 

"Never,"  he  declared.  "But  you  don't  suppose  you 
can  have  all  these  mysterious  allusions  to  Richard  with- 
out my  guessing  that  his  father  is  Vicar  of  Fairfield. 
Dear  Margaret,  forgive  me  for  guessing  and  tell  me  what 
you  were  going  to  tell." 

"Have  you  heard  I  was  engaged  to  Richard  Ford?" 
she  asked. 

"I  heard  he  was  in  love  with  you." 

"Oh,  he  is,  he  is,"  she  murmured,  and  Guy,  thinking  of 
Richard  in  India,  wondered  if  he  ever  dreamed  of  Mar- 
garet walking  like  this  in  a  snowy  England.  The  clock 
in  Fairfield  church  struck  eleven  with  an  icy  tinkle  that 
on  the  muted  air  sounded  very  thinly.  "But  the  prob- 
lem for  me,"  Margaret  went  on,  "is  whether  I'm  in  love 
with  him,  or  if  Richard  is  merely  the  nicest  person  who 
has  been  in  love  with  me  so  far." 

Bl 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Well,  if  you'd  asked  me  that  three  months  ago,"  Guy 
said,  "I  would  have  answered  decidedly  that  you  weren't 
in  love  with  him  if  you  had  one  doubt.  But  now  .  .  . 
well,  you  know  really  now  I'm  rather  in  the  state  of  mind 
that  wants  everybody  to  be  in  love.  And  why  do  you 
think  you're  not  in  love  with  him?" 

"I  haven't  really  explained  well,"  said  Margaret. 
"What  I'm  sure  of  is  that  I'm  not  as  much  in  love  with 
him  as  I  want  to  be  in  love." 

"You're  living  opposite  a  looking-glass,"  said  Guy. 
"That's  what  is  the  matter." 

They  had  reached  the  stile  leading  over  into  the  high- 
road, and  Margaret  gazed  back  wistfully  at  the  footprints 
in  the  snow,  before  they  crossed  it  and  went  on  their  way. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  am  conceited.  But  my  conceit  is 
really  cowardice.  I  long  for  admiration,  and  when  I  am 
admired  I  despise  it.  I  lie  in  bed  thinking  how  well  I 
play  the  'cello,  and  when  I  have  the  instrument  by  me  I 
don't  believe  I  can  play  even  moderately  well.  I  am  really 
fond  of  him,  but  the  moment  I  think  that  anybody  else 
is  thinking  about  my  being  fond  of  him  I  almost  hate  his 
name.  I  can't  bear  the  idea  of  going  to  live  in  India, 
and  I  detest  bridges — you  know  he  builds  bridges — and 
yet  I  couldn't  possibly  write  to  him  and  say  that  he  must 
think  no  more  about  me.  I'm  really  a  mixture  of  Monica 
and  Pauline,  and  so  I'm  not  as  happy  as  either  of  them." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  Pauline  is  very  happy,"  said  Guy  in  a 
depressed  voice. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  Margaret  asked. 

"I'm  sure  you're  much  more  in  love  than  you  think," 
he  declared,  quickly,  for  he  had  the  ghost  of  a  temptation 
to  tell  her  she  was  foolish  to  think  any  more  of  a  love  so 
uncertain  as  hers.  There  was  enough  jealousy  of  his 
standing  at  the  Rectory  to  give  him  the  impulse  to  rob 
Richard  of  his  foothold,  but  the  meanness  destroyed  it- 
self on  this  virginal  morning  almost  before  Guy  realized 
it  had  tried  to  exist.  "Yes,  I'm  sure  you're  really  in 

8* 


WINTER 

love,"  he  repeated.  "I  think  I  can  understand  what  you 
feel." 

"Do  you?"  said  Margaret,  shaking  her  head  a  little 
sadly.  "I'm  afraid  it's  only  a  very  willing  sympathy  on 
your  part,  for  I'm  sure  I  don't  understand  myself.  That's 
why  I'm  conceited,  perhaps.  I'm  trying  to  build  up  a 
Margaret  Grey  for  other  people  to  look  at,  which  I  admire 
like  any  pretty  thing  one  makes  oneself,  and  perhaps  why 
I  can't  fall  really  in  love  is  because  I'm  afraid  of  some 
one's  understanding  me  and  showing  me  to  myself." 

"You'd  have  to  be  very  clever  to  disappoint  that  per- 
son," said  Guy.  "And  why  shouldn't  Richard  Ford  be 
the  one?" 

"Oh,  he'll  never  discover  me,"  said  Margaret.  "That's 
what's  so  dull." 

"Aren't  you  a  little  unreasonable?"  Guy  asked. 

"Of  course  I  am.  Now  don't  let's  talk  about  me  any 
more;  I'm  really  not  worth  discussing — only  just  because 
my  family  is  so  exquisite  and  because  I  adore  them,  I 
never  talk  about  Richard  to  them.  Here's  the  old  wom- 
an's cottage.  I  sha'n't  be  more  than  a  few  minutes." 

Guy  felt  honored  by  Margaret's  confidence,  but  his 
heart  was  so  full  of  Pauline  that  he  transferred  all  the 
substance  of  what  she  had  been  saying  to  suit  his  own 
case.  Would  Pauline  never  know  if  she  were  in  love? 
Would  he  be  doomed  to  the  position  of  Richard?  Or 
worse,  would  Pauline  fly  from  his  love  in  terror  of  any- 
thing so  disturbing  to  the  perfection  of  her  life  at  pres- 
ent? On  the  whole  he  was  inclined  to  think  that  this  was 
exactly  what  she  would  do;  and  he  felt  he  would  never 
have  the  courage  to  startle  her  with  the  question.  When 
he  thought  of  the  girls  to  whom  in  the  past  of  long  vaca- 
tions he  had  made  protestations  of  devotion  that  were 
light  as  the  thistle-down  in  the  summery  meadows  where 
they  were  uttered,  it  was  incredible  that  the  asking  of 
Pauline  should  speed  his  heart  like  this.  With  other  girls 
he  had  always  imagined  them  slightly  in  love  with  him, 

83 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

but  for  Pauline  to  be  in  love  with  him  seemed  hopeless, 
though  he  qualified  his  humility  by  assuring  himself  that 
she  could  be  in  love  with  nobody.  Did  Margaret  really 
have  a  suspicion  that  he  was  in  love  with  Pauline?  If  she 
had,  why  had  she  not  drawn  his  confidence  before  she 
gave  her  own?  She  came  out  from  the  cottage  as  he 
propounded  this,  and  he  told  her,  when  their  faces  were 
set  towards  Wychford  and  a  chilly  wind  that  was  rising, 
how  he  had  been  thinking  about  her  confidence  all  the 
while  she  was  in  the  cottage.  Moreover,  he  was  under 
the  impression  this  was  the  truth. 

"But  don't  think  about  me  any  more,"  she  com- 
manded. 

"Never?" 

"Not  until  I  speak  first.  Isn't  it  cold?  You  must 
have  been  frozen  waiting  for  me." 

They  hurried  along,  talking  mostly,  though  how  the 
topic  arose  Guy  never  knew,  about  whether  Alice  in 
Wonderland  were  better  than  Alice  Through  the  Looking- 
glass  or  not.  The  quotations  that  went  to  sustain  the 
argument  were  so  many  that  they  arrived  back  very 
quickly,  it  seemed,  at  the  stile  leading  into  the  snowy 
field. 

"Will  you  go  home  the  same  way?"  Guy  suggested. 
"Look,  nobody  has  spoiled  our  tracks.  They're  jollier 
than  ever,  and  do  you  see  those  rooks  farther  down  the 
field?  It  will  snow  again  this  afternoon  and  our  foot- 
prints will  vanish." 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  Abbey  wood  Guy  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  as  they  walked  up  through  the 
shrubbery,  unless  people  were  listening  there,  he  would 
tell  Margaret  how  deeply  he  was  in  love  with  Pauline. 
The  resolution  taken,  his  throat  seemed  to  close  up  with 
nervousness,  and,  vaulting  over  the  fence,  he  tripped  and 
fell  in  a  snow-drift. 

"Why  this  violent  activity  all  of  a  sudden?"  Margaret 
asked. 

84 


WINTER 

He  laughed  gloomily  and  vowed  it  was  the  exhilarating 
weather.  Up  the  broad  walk  they  went  slowly,  and  every 
yard  was  bringing  them  dreadfully  nearer  to  Wychford 
High  Street  and  the  profanation  of  this  snowy  silence. 
Abruptly  a  robin  began  to  sing  from  a  bough  almost 
overhead;  and  Guy,  realizing  half-unconsciously  that 
unless  he  told  Margaret  now,  his  words  would  die  upon 
that  robin's  rathe  melody,  said: 

"Margaret,  you'll  probably  be  angry,  but  I  must  tell 
you  that  I'm  in  love  with  your  sister." 

He  drove  his  stick  deep  into  the  snow  to  give  his  eyes 
the  excuse  of  looking  down. 

"With  Pauline?"  she  said,  softly. 

He  congratulated  himself  upon  the  cunning  with  which 
he  had  at  least  thrown  something  on  Margaret  of  the 
responsibility,  as  he  almost  called  it.  Had  she  said 
Monica  it  would  have  killed  his  hope  at  once. 

"Of  course  I  know  it  must  sound  ridiculous,  but  .  .  ." 

"Is  she  in  love  with  me?"  asked  Margaret,  with  tender 
mockery.  "Well,  I  think  she  may  be.  Perhaps  I'm  al- 
most sure  she  is." 

"Margaret,"  said  Guy,  seizing  her  hand.  "I  hope 
you'll  be  the  happiest  person  in  the  world  always. 
You  know,  don't  you,  that  I'm  dying  for  you  to  be 
happy?" 

There  may  have  been  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  responded 
with  faintest  pressure  of  her  hand  to  his  affection. 

"And  you  won't  forget  all  about  me  and  take  no  more 
interest  in  what  will  seem  my  maddening  indecision, 
when  you  and  Pauline  are  happy?" 

"My  dear,  as  if  I  could!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Lovers  can  forget  very  easily,"  said  Margaret.  "You 
see  I've  thought  such  a  lot  about  being  in  love  that  I've 
got  every  one  else's  conduct  clearly  mapped  out  in  my 
mind."  " 

Guy  stopped  dead;  and,  as  he  stopped,  the  robin  now 
far  behind  them  ceased  his  song,  and  even  the  flute  of  the 

85  ' 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

wind  sounding  on  distant  hollows  and  horizons  cracked 
in  the  frost  so  that  the  stillness  was  sharp  as  ice  itself. 

"Margaret,  what  makes  you  think  Pauline  cares  for 
me?  How  dare  I  be  so  fortunate?" 

"Because  you  know  you  are  fortunate,"  said  Margaret, 
nor  could  falling  snow  have  touched  his  arm  more  lightly 
than  she.  "Why  do  you  suppose  I  told  you  about  Rich- 
ard if  it  was  not  because  I  thought  you  appreciated 
Pauline?" 

"Ah,  how  I  shall  always  love  the  snow,"  Guy  ex- 
claimed, grinding  the  slippery  ball  upon  his  heel  to 
powder. 

"But  now  I've  got  a  disappointment  for  you,"  said 
Margaret.  "Pauline  and  Monica  are  going  into  Oxford 
to-day  for  a  week." 

"You  won't  tell  anybody  what  I've  told  you?"  he 
begged. 

"Of  course  not.  Secrets  are  much  too  fascinating  not 
to  be  kept  as  long  as  possible." 

He  opened  the  wicket,  and  presently  they  parted  in 
the  High  Street. 

"I  shall  come  in  this  afternoon,"  he  called  after  her. 
"Unless  you're  bored  with  me." 

She  invited  him  with  her  muff,  and  seemed  to  float  out 
of  sight.  Suddenly  Guy  remembered  that  sometime  this 
morning  (it  seemed  as  long  ago  as  when  Wychford  Abbey 
was  alive)  Bob  had  been  with  him.  He  was  glad  of  an 
excuse  to  go  back  and  look  for  the  dog  in  those  now  con- 
secrated arbors.  There  the  robin  still  sang  his  rather 
pensive  tune;  and  there  from  a  high  ash-bough  a  missel- 
thrush,  wearing  full  ermine  of  the  Spring,  saluted  the 
vestal  day. 


FEBRUARY 

TDAULINE  started  to  Oxford  with  Monica,  feeling 
1  rather  disappointed  she  had  not  seen  Guy  before 
she  went;  for  Margaret  had  come  home  with  news  of 
having  walked  with  him  to  Fairfield,  and  it  was  tantaliz- 
ing, indeed  a  little  disturbing,  to  leave  him  behind  with 
Margaret. 

"Nothing  is  said  to  Margaret,"  Pauline  protested  at 
lunch,  "when  she  goes  out  for  a  walk  with  Guy.  Father, 
don't  you  think  it's  unfair?" 

"Well,  darling  Pauline,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Grey,  with 
an  anxious  glance  towards  her  second  daughter,  "you  see, 
Margaret  is  in  a  way  engaged." 

"I'm  not  engaged,"  Margaret  declared. 

"But  I'm  asking  Father,"  Pauline  persisted.  "Father, 
don't  you  think  it's  unfair?" 

The  Rector  was  turning  over  the  pages  of  a  seed- 
catalogue  and  answered  Pauline's  question  with  that 
engaging  irrelevancy  to  which  his  family  and  parish  were 
accustomed. 

"It's  disgraceful  for  these  people  to  offer  seeds  of  Incar- 
villea  olgce.  My  dears,  you  remember  that  anemic 
magenta  brute,  the  color  of  a  washed-out  shirt?  Ah," 
he  sighed,  "I  wish  they'd  get  that  yellow  Incarvillea  over. 
I  am  tempted  to  fancy  it  might  be  as  good  as  Tecoma 
Smithii,  and,  of  course,  coming  from  that  Yang-tse-kiang 
country,  it  would  be  hardy." 

"Francis  dear!"  Pauline  cried.  "Don't  you  think  it's 
unfair?" 

8? 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Pauline,"  said  her  mother,  "you  must  not  call  your 
father  Francis  in  the  dining-room." 

The  Rector,  oblivious  of  everything,  continued  to  turn 
slowly  the  pages  of  his  catalogue. 

"Oh,  bother  going  to  Oxford!"  said  Monica,  looking 
out  of  the  window  to  where  Janet  with  frozen  breath 
listened  for  the  omnibus  under  gathering  snow-clouds. 

"Now,  really,"  Pauline  exclaimed,  diverted  from  her 
complaint  of  Margaret's  behavior  by  another  injustice, 
"isn't  Monica  too  bad?  She's  grumbling,  though  it  was 
she  who  made  the  plan  to  stay  with  the  Strettons.  And 
though  they're  her  friends  and  not  mine,  I've  been  made 
to  go,  too." 

"Well,  I  hate  staying  with  people,"  Monica  explained. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Pauline.  "And  you  accepted  the  in- 
vitation for  me  that  day  you  were  in  Oxford  buying 
Christmas  presents,  when  you  forgot  to  buy  the  patience- 
cards  I  wanted  to  give  poor  Miss  Verney,  so  that  I  had 
to  give  her  a  horrid  little  china  dog,  though  she  hates 
dogs." 

"Now  I'm  sure  it'll  be  charming,  yes,  charming,  when 
you  get  there,"  Mrs.  Grey  affirmed,  hopefully. 

"Oh,  how  glad  I  am  I'm  not  going!"  said  Margaret. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  go  instead  of  me,"  Pauline  told 
her. 

"They're  not  my  friends,"  Margaret  replied,  with  a 
shrug. 

"No,  but  they're  more  your  friends  than  mine,"  Pauline 
argued.  "  Because  you're  nearer  to  Monica.  They're  four 
years  off  being  my  friends  and  only  two  from  being  yours." 

"Miss  Monica,"  said  Janet,  coming  into  the  room, 
"the  'bus  has  come  out  from  the  King's  Head  yard,  and 
you'll  be  late." 

There  was  instantly  a  confusion  of  preparation  by  Mrs. 
Grey  and  Pauline,  while  Monica  sighed  at  the  trouble  of 
departure,  and  Margaret  with  exasperating  indifference 
sat  warm  and  triumphant  by  the  fire. 

88 


WINTER 

"Good  gracious!"  the  Rector  exclaimed,  flinging  the 
catalogue  down  and  speaking  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
over  the  feverish  search  for  Pauline's  left  glove.  "These 
people  have  the  impudence  to  advertise  Penstemon  Lobbii 
as  a  novelty  when  it's  really  our  old  friend  Breviflorus. 
What  on  earth  is  to  be  done  with  these  scoundrels?" 

The  horn  of  the  omnibus  sounded  at  the  end  of  Rectory 
Lane;  and  the  fat  guard  was  marching  through  the  snow 
with  the  girls' luggage.  The  good-bys  were  all  said;  and 
presently  Pauline,  with  her  muff  held  close  to  her  cheeks 
against  the  north  wind,  was  sitting  on  top  of  the  omni- 
bus that  was  toiling  up  the  Shipcot  road.  As  she  caught 
sight  of  Plashers  Mead,  etched  upon  the  white  scene,  she 
wished  she  had  left  a  message  with  Margaret  to  say  in 
what  deep  disgrace  Guy  was.  On  they  labored  across 
five  miles  of  snow-stilled  country  with  sparse  flakes  melt- 
ing upon  the  horses'  flanks,  and  never  a  wayfarer  between 
Wychford  and  Shipcot  to  pause  and  stare  at  them. 

On  the  second  night  of  their  stay  with  the  Strettons, 
Monica,  when  she  and  Pauline  were  going  to  bed,  suddenly 
turned  round  from  the  dressing-table  and  demanded  in 
rhetorical  dismay  why  they  had  come. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Pauline;  "we've  only  got  five  more 
evenings." 

"Well,  that's  nearly  a  week,"  Monica  sighed.  "And 
I'm  tired  to  death  of  Olive  already." 

"  But  I'm  much  worse  off,"  Pauline  declared,  dolefully. 
"Because  I  have  to  sit  next  to  the  Professor,  who  does 
frighten  me  so.  You  see,  he  will  include  me  in  the  con- 
versation. Last  night  at  dinner,  after  he'd  been  talking 
to  that  don  from  Balliol  who  knew  Guy  and  whom  I  was 
dying  to  ask  ...  to  talk  to  myself,  I  mean,  he  turned 
round  to  me  and  said,  'I  am  afraid,  Miss  Pauline,  that 
Aramaic  roots  are  not  very  interesting  to  you.'  Well, 
of  course  I  got  muddled  between  Aramaic  and  aromatic, 
and  said  that  Father  had  just  been  given  a  lot  which  were 
very  poisonous." 

7  89 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Monica  laughed  that  sedate  laugh  of  hers,  which  al- 
ways seemed  to  Pauline  like  a  clock  striking,  so  independ- 
ent was  it  of  anybody's  feelings. 

"Monica  darling,  I  don't  want  to  be  critical,"  said 
Pauline.  "But  you  know  sometimes  your  laugh  sounds 
just  a  little — a  very  little  self-satisfied." 

"I  think  I  am  rather  self-satisfied,"  Monica  agreed, 
combing  her  golden  hair  away  from  her  high,  pale  fore- 
head. "And  Margaret  is  conceited,  and  you're  twice  as 
sweet  as  both  of  us  put  together." 

"Oh  no,  I'm  not!  Oh  no,  no,  Monica  dearest,  I'm  not!" 
Pauline  contradicted,  hurriedly.  "No,  really  I'm  very 
horrid.  And,  you  know,  when  I'm  bored  I'm  sure  I  show 
it.  Oh,  dear,  I  hope  the  Strettons  didn't  notice  I  was 
bored.  Mrs.  Stretton  was  so  touching  with  the  things 
they  had  brought  back  from  Madeira,  and  I  do  hate  things 
people  bring  back  from  places  like  Madeira." 

"And  when  you're  not  bored  with  anybody,"  said 
Monica,  "you're  rather  apt  to  make  that  too  obvious 
also." 

"Monica,  why  are  you  saying  that?"  Pauline  asked, 
with  wide-open  eyes. 

"  Even  supposing  Guy  is  in  love  with  you,"  said  Monica, 
slowly  blowing  out  the  candles  on  the  dressing-table  as  she 
spoke,  so  that  nothing  was  left  but  the  rosy  gas,  "  I  don't 
think  it's  necessary  to  show  him  quite  so  clearly  that 
you're  in  love  with  him." 

"Monica!" 

"Darling  little  sister,  I  do  so  want  you  .  .  .  oh,  how  can 
I  put  it?  Well,  you  know,  when  you  break  the  time  in 
a  trio,  as  you  sometimes  do  .  .  ." 

"But  I'm  not  in  love  with  Guy,"  Pauline  interrupted. 
"At  least,  oh,  Monica,  why  do  you  choose  a  house  like 
this  to  tell  me  such  things?"  she  asked,  with  tears  and 
blushes  fighting  in  her  countenance. 

"Pauline,  it's  only  that  I  want  you  to  keep  in  time." 

"I  can't  possibly  stay  with  the  Strettons  another  five 

90 


WINTER 

days,"  declared  Pauline  in  deepest  gloom.     "You  ought 
not  to  say  things  like  that  here." 

She  was  looking  round  this  strange  bedroom  for  the 
comfort  of  familiar  pictures,  but  there  was  nothing  on 
these  pink  walls  except  a  view  of  the  Matterhorn.  Monica 
was  kneeling  to  say  her  prayers,  and  in  the  stillness  the 
frost  outside  seemed  to  be  pressing  against  the  window- 
panes.  Pauline  thought  it  was  rather  unfair  of  Monica 
to  fade  like  this  into  unearthly  communications;  and  she 
knelt  down  to  pray  somewhat  vagrant  prayers  into  the 
quilted  eider-down  that  symbolized  the  guest-room's 
luxurious  chill.  She  longed  to  look  up  in  aspiration  and 
behold  Saint  Ursula  in  that  tall  bed  of  hers,  or  cheerful 
Tobit  walking  with  his  dog  in  the  angel's  company,  and 
in  the  corner  her  own  desk  that  was  full  of  childish  things. 
She  rose  from  her  knees  at  the  same  moment  as  Monica, 
who  at  once  began  to  talk  lightly  of  the  tiresome  people 
at  dinner  and  seemed  utterly  unconscious  of  having  wound- 
ed Pauline's  thoughts.  Yet  when  the  room  was  dark, 
for  a  long  while  these  wounded  thoughts  danced  upon  the 
wintry  air  that  breathed  of  Wychford.  "Even  supposing 
Guy  is  in  love  with  you"  It  was  curious  that  she  could 
not  feel  very  angry  with  Monica.  "Even  supposing  Guy  is 
in  love  with  you."  It  really  seemed  a  pity  to  fall  asleep; 
it  was  like  falling  asleep  when  music  was  being  played. 

The  subject  of  Guy  was  not  mentioned  again,  but  dur- 
ing the  days  that  remained  of  the  visit  Pauline  scarcely 
felt  that  she  was  living  in  the  Strettons'  house,  and  was 
so  absent  in  her  demeanor  that  Monica  was  disturbed 
into  what  was  for  her  a  positive  sociableness  to  counter- 
act Pauline's  appearance  of  inattention.  To  consum- 
mate the  vexation  of  the  visit  there  came  a  sudden  thaw 
two  days  before  they  left,  and  Oxford  was  ankle-deep  in 
slush.  Finally  Pauline  and  Monica  were  dragged  through 
the  very  nadir  of  depression  when  on  their  last  night  they 
were  taken  out  to  dinner  in  trams  and  goloshes  through 
such  abominable  conditions  of  weather. 

91 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Fancy  not  ordering  a  cab,"  whispered  Monica,  with 
cold  disapproval. 

"Perhaps  they  can't  afford  it,"  Pauline  suggested. 

"They  can  afford  to  go  to  Madeira,"  answered  Monica, 
"and  buy  all  those  stupid  knickknacks." 

"Well,  Monica,  they  are  your  friends,  you  know,"  said 
Pauline. 

However,  the  ist  of  February  arrived  next  morning, 
and  Oxford  was  left  behind.  Pauline  sighed  with  relief 
when  they  were  seated  in  the  train,  and  the  twenty  miles 
of  country  to  Shipcot  that  generally  seemed  so  dull  were 
as  green  and  welcome  as  if  they  were  returning  from  a 
Siberian  exile. 

"You  know,  Monica,  I  really  don't  think  we  ought  to 
stay  with  people.  I  don't  think  it's  honest  to  spend  such 
a  hateful  week  as  that  in  being  pleasant,"  she  declared. 

"I  didn't  notice  that  you  were  taking  much  trouble  to 
hide  your  boredom,"  said  Monica.  "It  seems  to  me  that 
I  was  always  in  a  state  of  trying  to  steer  people  round 
your  behavior." 

"Oh,  but  Professor  Stretton  loves  me,"  said  Pauline. 

She  was  trying  not  to  appear  excited  as  the  omnibus 
swished  and  slapped  through  the  mud  towards  Wychford. 
She  was  determined  that  in  future  she  would  lead  that 
inclosed  and  so  serene  life  which  she  admired  in  her  eldest 
sister.  Nobody  could  criticize  Monica  except  for  her 
coldness,  and  Pauline  knew  that  herself  would  never  be 
able  to  be  really  as  cold  as  that,  however  much  she  might 
assume  the  effect. 

"Grand  weather  after  the  snow,"  said  the  driver. 

The  roofs  of  Wychford  were  sparkling  on  the  hillside, 
and  earth  seemed  to  be  turning  restlessly  in  the  slow 
Winter  sleep. 

"This  mud  '11  all  be  gone  with  a  week  of  fine  days  like 
to-day,"  said  the  driver. 

Plashers  Mead  was  in  sight  now,  but  it  was  Monica 
who  pointed  to  where  Guy  and  his  dog  were  wandering 

92 


WINTER 

across  the  meadows  that  were  so  vividly  emerald  after 
the  snow. 

"I  think  it  is,"  agreed  Pauline,  indifferently. 

In  the  Rectory  garden  a  year  might  have  passed,  so 
great  was  the  contrast  between  now  and  a  week  ago. 
Now  the  snowdrops  were  all  that  was  left  of  the  snow, 
and  a  treasure  of  aconites  as  bright  as  new  guineas  were 
scattered  along  the  borders.  Hatless  and  entranced,  the 
Rector  was  roaming  from  one  cohort  of  green  spears  to 
another,  each  one  of  which  would  soon  be  flying  the 
pennons  of  Spring.  Pauline  rushed  to  embrace  him,  and 
he,  without  a  word,  led  her  to  see  where  on  a  sunny  bank 
Greek  anemones  had  opened  their  deep-blue  stars. 

" Blanda"  he  whispered.  "And  I've  never  known  her 
so  deep  in  color.  Dear  me,  poor  old  Ford  tells  me  he 
hasn't  got  one  left.  I  warned  him  she  must  have  sun  and 
drainage,  but  he  would  mix  her  with  Ncmorosa  just  to 
please  his  wife,  which  is  ridiculous — particularly  as  they 
are  never  in  bloom  together." 

He  bent  over  and  with  two  long  fingers  held  up  a  flower 
full  in  the  sun's  eye,  as  he  might  have  stooped  to  chuck 
under  the  chin  a  little  girl  of  his  parish. 

Monica  had  brought  back  a  new  quartet,  which  they 
practised  all  that  Candlemas  Eve.  When  it  was  time  to 
go  to  bed  Mrs.  Grey  observed  in  a  satisfied  voice  that, 
after  all,  it  must  have  been  charming  at  the  Strettons*. 

"Oh  no,  Mother;  it  was  terribly  dull,"  Pauline  pro- 
tested. 

"Now,  dear  Pauline,  how  could  it  have  been  dull,  when 
you've  brought  back  this  exquisite  Schumann  quartet?" 

Margaret  came  to  Pauline's  room  to  say  good  night, 
sat  with  her  while  she  undressed,  and  tucked  her  up  so 
lovingly  that  Pauline  was  more  than  ever  delighted  to  be 
back  at  home. 

"Oh,  Margaret,  how  sweet  you  are  to  me!  Why?  Is 
it  because  you  really  do  miss  me  when  I  go  away?" 

"Partly,"  said  Margaret. 

93 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Why  are  you  smiling  so  wisely?  Have  you  put  some- 
thing under  my  pillow?"  Pauline  began  to  search. 

"There's  nothing  under  your  pillow  except  all  the 
thoughts  I  have  to-night  for  you." 

Once  more  Margaret  leaned  over  and  kissed  her,  and 
Pauline  faded  into  sleep  upon  the  happiness  of  being  at 
home  again. 

Next  day  after  lunch  her  mother  and  sisters  went  to 
pay  a  long-postponed  call  upon  a  new  family  in  the 
neighborhood,  because  Margaret  insisted  they  must  take 
advantage  of  this  glorious  weather  which  would  surely 
not  last  very  long. 

Pauline  spent  the  early  afternoon  with  the  Rector  and 
Birdwood,  writing  labels  while  they  sowed  a  lot  of  new 
sweet-peas  which  had  been  sent  to  the  Rector  for  an 
opinion  upon  their  merits.  The  clock  was  striking  four 
when  Guy  strolled  into  the  garden.  Somehow  Pauline's 
labels  were  not  so  carefully  written  after  his  arrival,  and 
at  last  the  Rector  advised  her  to  take  Hazlewood  and 
show  him  Anemone  blanda.  They  left  the  big  wall- 
garden  and  went  across  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house 
to  the  second  wall-garden,  where  most  of  the  Rector's 
favorites  grew  as  it  pleased  them  best. 

"Oh,  they've  all  gone  to  bed,"  said  Pauline. 

Guy  knelt  down  and  opened  the  petals  of  one. 

"They're  exactly  the  color  of  your  eyes,"  he  said,  look- 
ing up  at  her. 

Pauline  was  conscious  that  the  simple  statement  was 
fraught  with  a  significance  far  greater  than  anything 
which  had  so  far  happened  in  her  life.  It  was  ringing 
in  her  ears  like  a  bugle-call  that  sounded  some  far-flung 
advance,  and  involuntarily  she  drew  back  and  began  to 
talk  nonsense  breathlessly,  while  Guy  did  not  speak. 
Nor  must  she  let  him  speak,  she  told  herself,  for  behind 
that  simple  comparison  how  many  questions  were  trem- 
bling! 

"Oh,  I  wonder  if  the  others  are  back  yet,"  she  finally 

94 


WINTER 

exclaimed,  and  forthwith  hurried  from  the  garden  towards 
the  house.  She  wished  she  must  not  look  back  over  her 
shoulder  to  see  Guy  following  her  so  gravely.  Of  course, 
when  they  were  standing  in  the  hall,  the  others  had  not 
come  back;  and  the  house  in  its  silence  was  a  hundred 
times  more  portentous  than  the  garden.  And  what  would 
Guy  be  thinking  of  her  for  bringing  him  back  to  this 
voicelessness  in  which  she  could  not  any  longer  talk 
nonsense?  Here  the  least  movement,  the  slightest  ges- 
ture, the  most  ordinary  word,  would  be  weighted  for  both 
of  them  with  an  importance  that  seemed  unlimited.  For 
the  first  time  the  Rectory  was  strangely  frightening;  and 
when  through  the  silent  passages  they  were  walking  tow- 
ards the  nursery  it  was  the  exploration  of  a  dream.  Yet, 
however  undiscoverable  the  object  that  was  leading  them, 
she  was  glad  to  see  the  nursery  door,  for  there  within 
would  surely  come  back  to  her  the  ease  of  an  immemorial 
familiarity.  Yet  in  that  room  of  childhood,  that  room 
the  most  bound  up  with  the  simple  progress  of  her  life, 
she  found  herself  counting  the  birds,  berries,  and  daisies 
upon  the  walls,  as  if  she  were  beholding  them  vaguely 
for  the  first  time.  Why  was  she  unpicking  Margaret's 
work  or  folding  into  this  foolish  elaboration  of  triangles 
Monica's  music.  And  why  did  Guy  behave  so  oddly, 
taking  up  all  sorts  of  unnatural  positions,  leaning  upon 
the  rickety  mantelshelf,  balancing  himself  upon  the 
fender,  pleating  the  curtains,  and  threading  his  way  with 
long  legs  in  and  out,  in  and  out  of  the  chairs? 

"Pauline!" 

He  had  stopped  abruptly  by  the  fireplace,  and  was  not 
looking  at  her  when  he  spoke.  Oh,  he  would  never  suc- 
ceed in  lifting  even  from  the  floor  that  match  which  with 
one  foot  he  was  trying  to  lift  on  to  the  other  foot. 

"Pauline!" 

Now  he  was  looking  at  her;  and  she  must  be  looking  at 
him,  for  there  was  nothing  on  this  settee  which  would 
give  her  a  good  reason  not  to  look  at  him.  The  room 

95 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

was  so  still  that  beyond  the  closed  door  the  hoarse  tick 
of  the  cuckoo-clock  was  audible;  and  what  was  that 
behind  her  which  was  fretting  against  the  window-pane? 
And  why  was  she  holding  with  each  hand  to  the  brocade, 
as  if  she  feared  to  be  swept  altogether  out  of  this  world  ? 

"Pauline!" 

Was  it  indeed  her  voice  on  earth  that  said  "yes"? 

"Pauline,  I  suppose  you  know  I  love  you?" 

And  she  was  saying  "yes." 

"Pauline,  do  you  love  me?" 

And  again  she  had  said  "yes." 

Outside  in  the  corridor  the  cuckoo  snapped  the  half- 
hour;  then  it  seemed  to  tick  faster  and  a  thousand 
times  faster.  She  must  turn  away  from  Guy,  and  as  she 
turned  she  saw  that  what  had  been  fretting  the  window- 
pane  was  a  spray  of  yellow  jasmine.  Upon  the  cheek 
that  was  turned  from  him  the  dipping  sun  shed  a  warm 
glow,  but  the  one  nearer  was  a  flame  of  fire. 

"Pauline!" 

He  had  knelt  beside  her  in  that  moment;  and,  leaning 
over  to  his  nearness,  Pauline  looked  down  at  her  hand  in 
his,  as  if  she  were  gazing  at  a  flower  which  had  been 
gathered. 


SPRING 


MARCH 

THE  doubts  and  the  joys  of  the  future  broke  upon 
Guy  with  so  wide  and  commingled  a  vision,  that 
before  the  others  got  home  and  even  before  Janet  came 
in  with  tea,  he  hurried  away  from  that  nursery,  where 
over  the  half-stilled  echoes  of  childhood  he  had  heard  the 
sigh  of  Pauline's  assent.  The  practical  side  of  what  he 
had  done  could  be  confronted  to-morrow,  and  with  a 
presage  of  hopelessness  the  word  might  have  lain  heavily 
upon  his  mind,  if  on  the  instant  of  sinking  it  had  not  been 
radiantly  winged  with  the  realization  of  the  indestructible 
spirit  that  would  henceforth  animate  all  the  to-morrows 
of  time.  No  day  could  now  droop  for  him,  whatever  the 
difficulties  it  brought,  whatever  the  hazards,  when  he 
had  Pauline  and  Pauline's  heart;  and  like  disregarded 
moments  the  years  of  their  life  went  tumbling  down  into 
eternity,  as  the  meaning  of  that  sighed-out  assent  broke 
upon  his  conscience  with  fresh  glory. 

"You'll  tell  your  mother  to-night?"  he  asked.  "I 
think  Margaret  will  know  when  she  sees  your  shining 
eyes." 

"Are  my  eyes  shining?" 

"Ah,  don't  you  know  they  are,  when  you  look  into 
mine  ?" 

Guy  could  have  proclaimed  that  he  and  she  were  stars 
flashing  to  one  another  across  a  stupendous  night;  but 
there  were  no  similes  that  did  not  seem  tawdry  when  he 
threw  them  round  Pauline. 

"Child,  child,  beloved  child!"  he  whispered;  and  his 

99 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

voice  faltered  for  the  pitiful  inadequacy  of  anything  that 
he  could  call  her.  What  words  existed,  with  whatever 
tenderness  uttered,  with  whatever  passion  consecrated  by 
old  lovers,  that  would  not  still  be  words,  when  they  were 
used  for  Pauline  ?  Guy  watched  for  a  moment  the  cheek 
that  was  closer  to  his  lips  write  in  crimson  the  story  of 
her  love.  He  wished  he  could  tell  his  love  for  her  with 
even  the  hueless  apograph  of  such  a  signal;  and  yet, 
since  anything  he  said  was  only  worthy  of  utterance  in 
so  far  as  she  by  this  ebb  and  flow  of  response  made  it 
worthy,  why  should  he  trouble  that  cheek  which,  sentient 
now  as  a  rose  of  the  sun,  hushed  all  but  wonder? 

"Good-by!" 

He  bent  over  and  touched  her  hand  with  his  lips.  Then 
the  Rectory  stairs  had  borne  him  down  like  a  feather; 
the  Rectory  door  had  assumed  a  kind  of  humanity,  so 
that  the  handle  seemed  to  relinquish  his  grasp  with  an 
affectionate  unwillingness.  Out  in  the  drive,  where  the 
purple  trees  were  washed  by  the  February  dusk,  he  stood 
perplexed  at  himself  because  in  a  wild  kiss  he  had  not 
crushed  Pauline  to  his  heart.  Had  it  been  from  some 
scruple  of  honor  in  case  her  father  and  mother  should  not 
countenance  his  love?  Had  it  sprung  out  of  some  im- 
pulse to  postpone  for  a  while  a  joy  that  must  be  the  sharp- 
est he  would  ever  know?  Or  was  it  that  in  the  past  he 
had  often  kissed  too  lightly,  so  that  now,  when  he  really 
loved,  he  could  not  imagine  the  kiss  unpassionate  and  fierce 
that  would  seal  her  immortally  to  love,  yet  leave  her  still 
a  child? 

As  he  paused  in  that  golden  February  dusk,  Guy  re- 
joiced he  had  told  his  love  in  such  an  awe  of  her  girlhood; 
and  when  from  the  nursery  window  Pauline  blew  one  kiss 
and  vanished  like  a  fay  at  mortal  trespassing,  he  floated 
homeward  upon  the  airy  salute,  weighing  no  more  than 
a  seed  of  dandelion  to  his  own  sense  of  being.  Upon  his 
way  he  observed  nothing,  neither  passer-by  nor  carts  in 
the  muddy  roads.  As  he  crossed  the  bridge  the  roar  of 

100 


SPRING 

the  water  into  the  mill-pond  was  inaudible,  nor  did  he 
hear  his  melodious  garden  ways.  And  when  Miss  Peasey 
came  to  his  room  with  the  lamp,  he  could  not  realize  for 
a  moment  who  she  was  or  what  she  was  talking  about. 
The  hour  or  two  before  dinner  went  by  as  one  tranced 
minute;  in  a  dream  he  went  down  to  dinner;  in  a  dream 
he  began  to  carve;  in  a  dream  the  knife  remained  motion- 
less in  the  joint,  so  that  Miss  Peasey  coming  to  inquire 
after  his  appetite  thought  it  was  stuck  in  a  skewer.  Up- 
stairs in  the  library  again,  he  dreamed  the  evening  away; 
and  when  the  lamp  hummed  slowly  and  oilily  to  extinction 
he  still  sat  on,  till  at  last  the  fire  perished,  and  from  com- 
plete darkness  he  roused  himself  and  went  to  bed. 

Guy  was  under  the  cloud  of  a  reaction  when  he  rang 
the  Rectory  bell  on  the  morning  after.  The  door  looked 
less  amicable,  and  the  dragon-headed  knocker  stared  bale- 
fully  while  he  was  waiting  to  be  let  in.  He  wondered  for 
whom  of  the  family  he  ought  to  ask,  but  Mrs.  Grey  came 
nervously  into  the  hall  and  invited  him  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  Pauline  has  gone  over  to  Fairfield,"  she  began  in  jerky 
sentences.  "Charming  .  .  .  yes,  charming,  you  came 
this  morning." 

The  sun  had  not  yet  reached  the  oriel  of  the  drawing- 
room,  that  with  shadows  and  fragrance  was  welcoming 
Guy  where  he  sat  in  a  winged  arm-chair  beside  the  fire. 
Time  was  seeming  to  celebrate  the  momentousness  of  his 
visit  by  standing  still  as  in  a  picture,  and  he  knew  that 
every  word  and  every  gesture  of  Mrs.  Grey  would  in  his 
memory  rest  always  enambered.  He  was  glad,  and  yet 
in  the  captivating  quiet  a  little  sorry,  that  she  began  to 
speak  at  once: 

"Of  course  Pauline  told  me  about  yesterday.  And  of 
course  I  would  sooner  she  were  in  love  with  a  man  she 
loved  than  with  a  man  who  had  a  great  deal  of  money. 
But  of  course  you  mustn't  be  engaged  at  once.  At  least 
you  can  be  engaged;  you  are  engaged.  Oh  yes,  of  course 

101 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

if  you  weren't  engaged  I  shouldn't  allow  you  to  see  each 
other,  and  you  shall  see  each  other  occasionally.  Francis 
has  not  said  anything.  The  Rector  will  probably  be 
rather  doubtful.  Of  course  I  told  him;  only  he  happened 
to  be  very  busy  about  something  in  the  garden.  But  he 
would  want  Pauline  to  be  happy.  Of  course  she  is  my 
favorite — at  least  I  should  not  say  that.  I  love  all  my 
daughters,  but  Pauline  is — well,  she  has  the  most  beauti- 
ful nature  in  the  world.  My  darling  Pauline!" 

Mrs.  Grey's  eyes  were  wet,  and  Guy  was  so  full  of  affec- 
tionate gratitude  that  it  was  only  by  blinking  very  hard 
at  a  small  picture  of  Pauline  hanging  beside  the  mantel- 
piece he  was  able  to  keep  his  own  dry. 

"I  have  a  nicer  picture  than  that  which  I  will  give 
you,"  Mrs.  Grey  promised.  "The  one  that  I  am  fondest 
of,  the  one  I  keep  beside  my  bed.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  a  picture  of  her  when  she  was  seventeen?  She's  just 
the  same  now,  and  really  I  think  she'll  always  be  the 
same." 

"You  are  too  good  to  me,  Mrs.  Grey,"  he  sighed. 

"We  are  all  so  fond  of  you  .  .  .  even  the  Rector,  though 
he  is  not  likely  to  show  it.  Pauline  is  perhaps  more  like 
me.  Her  impulsiveness  comes  from  me." 

"Ought  I  to  talk  to  the  Rector  about  our  engagement?" 
Guy  asked. 

"Oh  no,  no  ...  it  would  disturb  him,  and  I  don't  think 
he'll  admit  that  you  are  engaged.  In  fact,  he  said  some- 
thing about  children;  but  I  would  rather  ...  At  least, 
of  course,  you  are  children.  But  Margaret  says  you 
can't  be  quite  a  child  or  you  would  not  be  in  love  with 
Pauline.  And  now  if  you  go  along  the  Fair-field  road 
you'll  meet  her.  But  that  is  only  an  exception.  Not 
often.  I  think  to-day  she  might  be  disappointed  if  you 
didn't  meet  her.  And  come  to  lunch,  of  course.  Poetry 
is  a  little  precarious,  but  at  any  rate  for  the  present  we 
needn't  talk  about  the  future.  I  wish  your  mother  were 
still  alive.  I  think  she  would  have  loved  Pauline." 

102 


SPRING 

"She  would  have  adored  her,"  said  Guy,  fervently. 

"And  your  father?  Of  course  you'll  bring  him  to  tea, 
when  he  comes  to  stay  with  you?  That  will  be  charm- 
ing .  .  .  yes,  charming.  Now  hurry,  or  you'll  miss  her." 

Guy  had  no  words  to  tell  Mrs.  Grey  of  the  devotion 
she  had  inspired;  but  all  the  way  down  the  Fairfield  road 
he  blessed  her  and  hoped  that  somehow  the  benediction 
would  make  itself  manifest.  Then,  far  away,  coming  over 
the  brow  of  a  hill,  he  saw  Pauline.  It  was  one  of  those 
hills  with  a  suggestion  of  the  sea  behind  them,  so  sharply 
are  they  cut  against  the  sky.  This  was  one  of  those  hills 
that  in  childhood  had  thrilled  him  with  promise  of  the 
faintly  imaginable;  and  even  now  he  always  approached 
such  a  hill  with  a  dream  and  surmise  of  new  beauty.  Yet 
more  wonderful  than  any  dream  was  the  reality  of  Pau- 
line coming  towards  him  over  the  glistening  road.  She 
was  shy  when  he  met  her,  and  the  answers  she  gave  to 
his  eager  questions  were  so  softly  spoken  that  Guy  was 
half  afraid  of  having  exacted  too  much  from  her  yester- 
day. Did  she  regret  already  the  untroublous  time  be- 
fore she  knew  him?  Yet  it  was  better  that  she  should 
walk  beside  him  in  still  unbroken  enchantment,  that  the 
declaration  of  his  love  should  not  have  damaged  the  wings 
seeming  always  unfolded  for  flight  from  earth;  so  would 
he  wish  to  keep  her  always,  that  never  this  Psyche  should 
be  made  a  prisoner  by  him.  The  elusive  quality  of  Pauline 
which  was  shared  in  a  slighter  degree  by  her  sisters  kept 
him  eternally  breathless,  for  she  was  immaterial  as  a  cloud 
that  flushes  for  an  instant  far  away  from  the  sunset. 
And  yet  she  was  made  with  too  much  of  earth's  simple 
beauty  to  be  compared  with  clouds.  Her  sisters  had  the 
ghostly  serenity  and  remoteness  that  might  more  appro- 
priately be  called  elusive.  Pauline  gave  more  the  effect 
of  an  earthly  thing  that  transcends  by  the  perfection  of 
its  substance  even  spirit;  and  rather  was  she  seeming, 
though  poised  for  airy  regions,  still  sweetly  content  with 
earth.  She  had  not  been  more  elusive  than  eglantine 

103 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

overarching  a  deep  lane  at  Midsummer,  for  he  had  pulled 
down  the  spray,  and  it  was  the  fear  of  a  petal  falling  too 
soon  from  the  tremulous  flowers  that  gave  him  this  sense 
of  awe  as  he  walked  beside  her. 

Yet  once  again  Guy  found  his  comparisons  poor  enough 
when  he  looked  at  Pauline,  and  he  exclaimed,  despair- 
ingly: 

"There  are  no  words  for  you.  I  wanted  to  say  to 
your  mother  what  I  thought  about  you.  Oh,  she  was  so 
charming." 

"She  is  a  darling,"  said  Pauline.     "And  so  is  Father." 

They  were  come  to  the  stile  where  he  and  Margaret 
had  watched  their  footprints  on  the  snow. 

"And  Margaret  was  very  sympathetic,  you  know,"  he 
went  on.  "  Really,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her  I  should  never 
have  dared  to  tell  you  I  loved  you.  We  talked  about  her 
and  Richard " 

"Margaret  does  love  him.  She  does,"  Pauline  de- 
clared. "Only  she  will  ask  herself  questions  all  the  time." 

How  she  changed  when  she  was  speaking  of  Richard, 
thought  Guy,  a  little  jealously.  Why  could  she  not  say 
out  clearly  like  that  her  love  for  him  ? 

"You  do  love  me  this  morning?"  he  asked.  She  was 
standing  on  the  step  of  the  stile,  and  he  offered  his  hand 
to  help  her  down.  "Won't  you  say,  *I  love  you'?" 

But  only  with  her  eyes  could  she  tell  him,  and  as,  her 
finger-tips  on  his,  she  jumped  from  the  step,  she  was  im- 
ponderable as  the  blush  upon  her  cheeks. 

"In  the  Summer,"  said  Guy,  "you  and  I  will  be  on  the 
river  together.  Will  you  be  shy  when  Summer  comes?" 

"Monica  says  I'm  not  nearly  shy  enough." 

"What  on  earth  does  Monica  expect?" 

They  were  under  the  trees  of  Wychford  Abbey,  and 
Guy  told  her  of  the  days  he  had  spent  here,  thinking  of 
her  and  of  the  hopelessness  of  her  loving  him. 

"I  could  not  imagine  you  would  love  me.  Why  do 
you?" 

104 


SPRING 

She  shook  her  head. 

"One  day  we'll  explore  the  inside  of  the  house  together. 
Shall  we?" 

"Oh  no!  I  hate  that  place.  Oh  no,  Guy,  we'll  never 
go  there.  Come  quickly.  I  hate  that  house.  Margaret 
loves  it  and  says  I'm  morbid  to  be  afraid.  But  I  shudder 
when  I  see  it." 

They  hurried  through  the  dark  plantation;  and  Guy, 
under  the  influence  of  Pauline's  positive  terror,  felt 
strangely  as  if,  were  he  to  look  behind,  he  would  behold 
the  house  leering  at  them  sardonically. 

People,  too,  eyed  them  as  they  went  down  High  Street 
and  turned  into  Rectory  Lane.  Guy  had  a  sensation  of 
all  the  inhabitants  hurrying  from  their  business  in  the 
depths  of  their  old  houses  to  peer  through  the  casements 
at  Pauline  and  him;  and  he  was  glad  when  they  reached 
the  Rectory  drive  and  escaped  the  silent  commentary. 

When  she  was  at  home  again  Pauline's  spirits  rose 
amazingly;  and  all  through  lunch  she  was  so  excited 
that  her  mother  and  sisters  were  continually  repressing 
her  noisiness.  Guy,  on  the  contrary,  felt  woefully  self- 
conscious,  and  was  wondering  all  the  while  with  how 
deep  a  dislike  the  Rector  was  regarding  him  and  if  after 
lunch  he  would  not  call  him  aside  and  solemnly  expel 
him  from  the  house.  As  they  got  up  from  the  table  the 
Rector  asked  if  Guy  were  doing  anything  particular  that 
afternoon,  and  on  receiving  an  assurance  that  he  was  not, 
the  Rector  asked  if  he  would  help  with  the  sweet-peas 
that  still  wanted  sorting.  Guy  in  a  bodeful  gloom  said 
he  would  be  delighted. 

"I  shall  be  in  the  garden  at  two,"  said  the  Rector. 

"Shall  I  come  as  well  and  help?"  Pauline  offered. 

"No;  I  want  you  to  take  some  things  into  the  town  for 
me,"  said  the  Rector. 

Guy's  heart  sank  at  this  confirmation  of  his  fears. 
Out  in  the  hall  Margaret  took  him  aside. 

"Well,  are  you  happy?" 
8  105 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Margaret,  you've  been  beyond  words  good  to  me." 

"Always  be  happy,"  she  said. 

Even  Monica  whispered  to  him  that  he  was  lucky,  and 
Guy  was  so  deeply  impressed  at  being  whispered  to  by 
Monica  that  it  gave  him  a  little  courage  for  his  inter- 
view. He  joined  the  Rector  in  the  garden  punctually  at 
two,  and  worked  hard  with  labels  and  classifications. 

"^/%"  the  Rector  read  out.  "A  lavender  twice  as  big  as 
Lady  Grizel  Hamilton.  D2i.  An  orange  that  will  not 
burn.  Humph!  I  don't  believe  it.  Do  you  believe  that, 
Birdwood?" 

The  gardener  shook  his  head. 

"There  never  was  an  orange  as  didn't  burn  like  a  house 
on  fire  the  moment  the  sun  set  eyes  on  it." 

"  Of  course  it  '11  burn,  and,  anyhow,  there's  no  such  thing 
as  an  orange  sweet-pea.  If  there  is,  it's  Henry  Eckford." 

"Henry  isn't  orange,"  said  Birdwood.  "Leastways  not 
an  orange  like  you  get  at  Christmas." 

"More  buff?" 

"Buff  as  he  can  be,"  said  Birdwood.  "What  do  you 
think,  Mr.  Hazlenut?"  he  went  on,  turning  to  Guy  and 
winking  very  hard. 

"I  really  don't  know  him  ...  it  ..."  said  Guy. 

"05>"  the  Rector  began  again.  "A  cream  and  rose 
picotee  Spenser.  Yes,  I  dare  say,"  he  commented.  "And 
with  about  as  much  smell  as  distilled  water." 

So  the  business  went  on,  with  Guy  on  tenterhooks  all 
the  while  for  his  own  summing-up  by  the  Rector.  He 
thought  the  moment  was  arrived  when  Birdwood  was  sent 
off  on  an  errand  and  when  the  Rector,  getting  up  from  his 
kneeler,  began  to  shake  the  trowel  at  him  impressively. 
But  all  he  said  was: 

"Tingitana's  plumping  up  magnificently.  And  we'll 
have  some  flowers  in  three  weeks — the  first  I  shall  have 
had  since  the  Diamond  Jubilee.  Sun!  Sun!" 

Guy  jumped  at  the  apostrophe,  so  nearly  did  it  ap- 
proximate to  "son-in-law."  But  of  this  relation  noth- 

106 


SPRING 

ing  was  said,  and  now  Pauline  was  calling  out  that  tea 
was  ready. 

"Go  in,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  Rector.  "I've  still 
a  few  things  to  do  in  the  garden.  By  the  way,  was  your 
father  at  Trinity,  Oxford?" 

"No,  he  was  at  Exeter." 

"Ah,  then  I  didn't  know  him.  I  knew  a  Hazlewood  at 
Trinity." 

The  Rector  turned  away  to  business  elsewhere,  and 
Guy  was  left  to  puzzle  over  his  casual  allusion.  Perhaps 
he  ought  to  have  raised  the  subject  of  being  in  love 
with  Pauline,  for  which  purpose  the  Rector  may  have 
given  him  an  opening.  Or  did  this  inquiry  about  his 
father  portend  a  letter  to  him  from  the  Rector  about  his 
son's  prospects?  He  certainly  ought  to  have  said  some- 
thing to  make  the  Rector  realize  how  much  tact  would  be 
necessary  in  approaching  his  father.  Pauline  called  again 
from  the  nursery  window,  and  Guy  hurried  off  to  join 
the  rest  of  the  family  at  tea. 

In  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Grey,  Monica,  and  Mar- 
garet all  seemed  anxious  to  show  their  pleasure  in  Pauline's 
happiness;  and  Guy  in  the  assurance  this  old  house  gave 
him  of  a  smooth  course  for  his  love  ceased  to  worry  any 
longer  about  parental  problems  and  was  content  to  live  in 
the  merry  and  intimate  present.  He  realized  how  far  he. 
was  advanced  in  his  relation  to  the  family  when  Brydone, 
the  doctor's  son,  came  in  to  call.  Guy  took  a  malicious 
delight  in  his  stilted  talk,  as  for  half  an  hour  he  tried 
to  explain  to  Monica,  a  grave  and  abstracted  listener, 
how  the  pike  would  in  March  go  up  the  ditches  and  the 
shallow  backwaters,  and  what  great  sport  it  was  to  snare 
them  with  a  copper  noose  suspended  from  a  long  pole. 
There  was,  too,  that  triumphant  moment  he  had  long 
desired,  when  Brydone,  rising  to  take  his  leave,  asked  if 
Guy  were  coming  and  when  he  was  able  to  reply  casually 
that  he  was  not  coming  just  yet. 

After  tea  Guy  and  Pauline,  as  if  by  an  impulse  that 

107 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

occurred  to  both  of  them  simultaneously,  begged  Mar- 
garet to  come  and  talk  in  the  nursery.  She  seemed 
pleased  that  they  wanted  her;  and  the  three  of  them  spent 
the  time  till  dinner  in  looking  at  the  old  familiar  things 
of  childhood — at  photographs  of  Monica  and  Margaret 
and  Pauline  in  short  frocks;  at  tattered  volumes  scrawled 
in  by  the  fingers  of  little  girls. 

"I  wish  I'd  known  you  when  you  were  small,"  sighed 
Guy.  "How  wasted  all  these  years  seem." 

The  gong  went  suddenly,  and  Margaret  said  that  of 
course  to-night  he  would  stay  to  dinner. 

So  once  again  he  was  staying  to  dinner,  and  now  on 
such  terms  as  would  make  this  an  occasion  difficult  to 
forget.  As  he  waited  alone  in  the  lamplit  nursery,  while 
Margaret  and  Pauline  were  dressing,  he  kissed  Pauline  in 
each  faded  picture  stuck  in  those  gay  scrap-books  of 
Varese.  Nor  did  he  feel  the  least  ashamed  of  himself, 
although  at  Oxford  his  cynicism  had  been  the  admiration 
even  of  Balliol,  where  there  had  been  no  one  like  him  for 
tearing  sentiment  into  dishonored  rags.  When  the  Rec- 
tor came  in  to  dinner,  carrying  with  him  a  dusty  botanical 
folio  that  swept  all  the  glass  and  silver  from  his  end  of 
the  table  to  huddle  in  the  center,  Guy  tried  to  make  out 
if  he  were  very  much  depressed  by  his  not  having  yet 
gone  home. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  the  Rector,  "  I  was  sure  I  had  seen  it 
in  here." 

"Seen  what,  Francis?"  asked  his  wife. 

"A  plant  you  wouldn't  know.    A  Cilician  crocus. 

"Isn't  Father  sweet?"  said  Pauline.  "Because,  of 
course,  Mother  never  knows  any  plant." 

"What  nonsense,  Pauline!  Of  course  I  know  a 
crocus." 

Towards  the  end  of  dinner  Mrs.  Grey  said,  rather  ner- 
vously: 

"Francis  dear,  wouldn't  you  like  to  drink  Pauline's 
.health?" 

108 


SPRING 

"Why,  with  pleasure,"  said  the  Rector.  "Though  she 
looks  very  well." 

Pauline  jumped  in  her  chair  with  delight  at  this,  but 
Mrs.  Grey  waved  her  into  silence  and  said: 

"And  Guy's  health,  too?" 

The  Rector  courteously  saluted  him;  but  the  guest 
feared  there  was  an  undernote  of  irony  in  the  bow. 

After  dinner  when  Monica,  Margaret,  and  Pauline  were 
preparing  for  a  trio,  Mrs.  Grey  said  confidentially  to  Guy: 

"You  mustn't  expect  Francis — the  Rector  to  realize  at 
once  that  you  and  Pauline  are  engaged.  And,  of  course, 
it  isn't  exactly  an  engagement  yet.  You  mustn't  see  her 
too  often.  You're  both  so  young.  Indeed,  as  Francis 
said,  children  really." 

Then  the  trio  began,  and  Guy  in  the  tall  Caroline  chair 
lived  every  note  that  Pauline  played  on  her  violin,  de- 
manding of  himself  what  he  had  done  to  deserve  her  love. 
He  looked  round  once  at  Mrs.  Grey  in  the  other  chair, 
and  marked  her  beating  time  while  like  his  own  her 
thoughts  were  all  for  Pauline.  In  the  heart  of  that  music 
Guy  was  able  to  say  anything,  and  he  could  not  resist 
leaning  over  and  whispering  to  Mrs.  Grey: 

"I  adore  her." 

"So  do  I,"  said  the  mother,  breaking  not  a  bar  in  her 
beat  and  gazing  with  soft  eyes  at  that  beloved  player. 

When  the  music  stopped  Guy  felt  a  little  embarrassed 
by  the  remembrance  of  his  unreserved  avowal;  yet  evi- 
dently it  had  seemed  natural  to  Mrs.  Grey,  for  when  he 
was  saying  good-by  in  the  hall  she  whispered  to  Pauline 
that  she  could  walk  with  Guy  a  short  way  along  the  drive. 
His  heart  leaped  to  the  knowledge  that  here  at  last  was 
the  final  sanction  of  his  love  for  her.  Pauline  flung  round 
her  shoulders  that  white  frieze  coat  in  which  he  had  first 
beheld  her  under  the  moon,  misty,  autumnal,  a  dream 
within  a  dream;  and  now  they  were  actually  walking  to- 
gether. He  touched  her  arm  half-timidly,  as  if  even  so 
light  a  gesture  could  destroy  this  moment. 

109 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Pauline,  Pauline!" 

He  saw  her  clear  eyes  in  the  February  starshine,  and, 
folding  her  close,  he  kissed  her  mouth.  When  he  woke 
he  was  home;  and  for  hours  he  sat  entranced,  knowing 
that  never  again  for  as  long  as  he  lived  would  he  feel 
upon  his  lips  as  now  the  freshness  of  Pauline's  first  kiss. 

The  rest  of  that  February  went  by  with  lengthening 
eyes  that  died  on  the  dusky  riot  of  blackbirds  in  the 
rhododendrons.  Here  and  there  in  mossy  corners  prim- 
roses were  come  too  soon,  seeming  all  aghast  and  wan  to 
behold  themselves  out  of  the  cloistral  earth,  while  the 
buds  of  the  daffodils  were  still  upright  and  would  not 
hang  their  heads  till  driven  by  the  wooing  of  the  windy 
March  sun. 

The  gray-eyed  virginal  month,  that  is  of  no  season  and 
must  as  often  bear  the  malice  of  Winter's  retreat  as  the 
ruffianly  onset  of  Spring,  had  now  that  very  seriousness 
which  suited  Guy's  troth. 

Rules  had  been  made  with  which  neither  he  nor  Pauline 
were  discontented,  and  so  through  all  that  February  Guy 
went  twice  a  week  to  the  Rectory  and  counted  himself 
rich  in  Mrs.  Grey's  promise  that  he  and  Pauline  should 
sometimes  be  allowed,  when  the  season  was  full-fledged, 
to  go  for  walks  together.  At  present,  however,  the  Rec- 
tory garden  must  be  a  territory  large  enough  for  their 
love. 

These  first  encounters  were  endowed  with  perhaps  not 
much  more  than  the  excitement  of  what  were  in  a  way 
superficial  observations,  since  neither  of  them  was  yet 
attempting  to  sound  any  deeps  in  the  other's  character. 
Guy  was  engaged  with  driving  a  wedge  into  that  past  of 
the  Rectory  whose  least  events  he  now  envied,  and  he 
was  never  tired  of  the  talks  about  Pauline's  childhood, 
So  much  of  a  fairy-tale  she  still  seemed  and  fit  for  endless 
repetition.  And  if  Guy  was  never  tired  of  being  told,  her 
family  was  never  tired  of  telling.  Never,  he  thought,  was 
lover  so  fortunate  in  an  audience  as  he  in  the  willingness 

HO 


SPRING 

with  which  he  was  accorded  a  confirmation  of  all  his 
praises.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  had  to  look  reproachfully 
at  Monica  or  Margaret  when  Pauline  seemed  hurt  at 
being  checked  for  some  piece  of  demonstrativeness.  If 
he  did  so  the  sisters  would  always  take  an  opportunity 
to  draw  him  aside  and  explain  that  it  was  only  Pauline's 
perfection  which  made  them  so  anxious  for  its  security. 
Indeed,  they  guarded  her  perpetually  and  with  such  a  high 
sense  of  the  privilege  of  wardship  that  Guy  always  had 
to  forgive  them  at  once.  Moreover,  he  was  so  conscious 
of  their  magnanimity  in  considering  him  as  a  lover  that 
he  was  almost  afraid  to  claim  his  right. 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  one  day,  "I  don't  know  how  you 
can  bear  to  contemplate  Pauline  married.  Why,  when  I 
think  of  myself,  I'm  simply  dumb  before  the — what  word 
is  there — audacity  is  much  too  pale  and,  oh,  what  word 
is  there?" 

"I  don't  think  I  could  contemplate  her  married  to 
anybody  but  you,"  said  Margaret. 

"But  why  me?" 

"Why,  because  you  are  young  enough  to  make  love 
beautiful  and  right,"  Margaret  told  him.  "And  yet  you 
seem  old  enough  to  realize  Pauline's  exquisite  nature.  So 
that  one  isn't  afraid  of  her  being  squandered  for  a  young 
man's  experience." 

"But  I'm  not  rich,"  said  Guy,  deliberately  leading  Mar- 
garet on  to  discuss  for  the  hundredth  time  this  topic  of 
himself  and  Pauline. 

"  Pauline  wouldn't  be  happy  with  riches.  They  would 
oppress  her.  She  isn't  luxurious  like  me." 

So  round  and  round,  backward  and  forward,  on  and  on 
the  debate  would  go,  until  Margaret  had  arranged  for 
Guy  and  Pauline  a  life  so  idyllic  that  Shelley  would  scarce- 
ly have  found  a  flaw  in  her  conception. 

Pauline,  however  demonstrative  in  the  presence  of  her 
family,  was  still  shy  when  she  was  alone  with  her  lover. 
Her  mirth  was  turned  to  a  whisper,  and  her  greatest  elo- 

III 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

quence  was  a  speech  of  drooping  silences  and  of  blushes 
rising  and  falling.  Guy  never  tired  of  watching  these 
flowery  motions  that  were  the  response  of  her  cheeks  to 
his  love.  Each  word  he  murmured  was  a  wind  to  stir  her 
countenance  or  ruffle  her  eyes,  so  that  they,  too,  responded 
with  cloudy  deeps  andishadows  and  sudden  veilings. 

Nothing  more  was  mentioned  of  the  practical  side  of 
the  engagement,  for  Mrs.  Grey,  Monica,  and  Margaret 
were  all  too  delightfully  enthralled  with  the  progress  of 
an  idyll  that  was  to  each  of  them  her  own  secret  poem  of 
Pauline  in  love;  while  as  for  the  Rector,  he  remained  out- 
wardly oblivious  of  the  whole  matter. 

March  came  crashing  into  this  peace  without  disturbing 
the  simple  pattern  into  which  the  existence  of  Guy  and 
Pauline  had  now  resolved  itself — a  pattern,  moreover, 
that  belonged  to  Pauline's  mother  and  sisters  for  their 
own  pleasure  in  embroidery,  so  that  the  lovers  were,  as 
it  might  be,  carried  about  from  room  to  room.  Some- 
times, indeed,  when  Guy  came  to  the  Rectory,  there  was 
a  pretense  of  leaving  him  and  Pauline  alone;  but  mostly 
they  were  in  the  company  of  the  others,  and  Guy  was 
now  as  deep  in  the  family  life  as  if  he  were  a  son  of  the 
house.  Since  he  and  Pauline  never  went  for  walks  to- 
gether, perhaps  Wychford  speculation  had  died  down — 
at  any  rate  there  was  no  gossip  to  disturb  Mrs.  Grey; 
although,  as  she  had  by  now  given  up  the  theory  of  a 
sort  of  engagement,  yet  without  consenting  to  anything 
in  the  shape  of  a  final  announcement,  it  might  not  have 
mattered  much. 

Meanwhile,  it  began  to  dawn  on  Guy  that  the  time  was 
coming  when  he  would  have  to  make  up  his  mind  to  do 
something  definite,  and  on  these  bleak  mornings  of  early 
March,  as  he  watched  the  scanty  snowflakes  withering 
against  the  panes,  he  asked  himself  if  there  was  any 
justification  for  staying  on  at  Plashers  Mead  in  the  new 
circumstances  of  his  life  there.  At  night,  however,  when 
the  wind  piped  and  whistled  round  the  house,  he  used 

112 


SPRING 

to  dream  upon  the  firelight  and  shrink  from  the  idea  of 
abandoning  all  that  Flashers  Mead  had  stood  for  and  all 
that  now  still  more  it  must  stand  for  in  the  future.  If 
only  a  plan  could  be  devised  by  which  the  house  were 
secured  against  sacrilege;  and  half-fantastically  he  began 
to  imagine  a  monastic  academy  for  poets,  of  which  he 
would  be  Warden.  Perhaps  Michael  Fane  would  like 
this  idea,  and  since  he  had  money  he  might  come  forward 
with  an  offer  of  endowment.  Then  he  and  Pauline  could 
be  married;  for  £150  a  year  would  be  an  ample  income, 
if  there  were  no  rent  to  pay  and  no  wages.  He,  of  course, 
would  earn  his  living  as  superintendent  of  the  academic 
discipline;  and  really,  as  he  dreamed  over  his  plan,  such 
an  establishment  would  be  an  admirable  corollary  to 
Oxford.  It  might  gain  even  a  sort  of  official  recognition 
from  the  university.  Plainly  some  sort  of  institution  was 
wanted  where  in  these  commercial  days  young  writers 
could  retreat  to  learn  their  craft  less  suicidally  than  by 
journalism.  What  should  he  call  his  academy?  With 
marriage  as  the  reason  for  inventing  this  economy,  he 
could  hardly  give  it  too  monastic  a  complexion.  The 
louder  the  wind  beat  against  the  house,  the  more  feasibly 
in  the  lamplit  quiet  within  did  the  scheme  present  itself; 
and  Michael  Fane,  who  was  always  searching  for  an  ob- 
ject in  life,  would  be  the  very  person  to  involve  in  the 
materialization.  He  would  say  nothing  to  anybody  else; 
not  even  would  he  mention  the  idea  to  Pauline  herself. 
These  sanguine  dreams  occupied  his  evenings  prosper- 
ously enough,  while  March  swept  past  with  searing  winds 
from  Muscovy  that  skimmed  the  rich  earth  of  the  plow- 
lands  with  a  dusty  pallor,  tarnished  the  daffodils,  and 
seemed  to  crack  the  very  bird-song.  Guy,  however,  with 
every  day  either  a  day  nearer  to  seeing  Pauline  again  or 
the  day  itself,  did  not  care  about  the  wind  that  blew, 
and  he  was  as  happy  walking  on  the  uplands  as  the  spindle- 
shanked  hares  that  sported  among  the  turfy  mounds. 
Later,  the  shrilling  wind  from  the  east  surrendered  to 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

the  booming  of  the  equinox.  Louder  than  before  the 
weather  beat  against  Guy's  house  from  the  opposite 
quarter.  Chimneys  groaned  like  broken  horns,  and  after 
a  desperate  gale  even  deaf  Miss  Peasey  complained  that 
she  had  heard  the  wind  once  or  twice  in  the  night,  and 
that  her  bedroom  had  seemed  a  bit  draughty.  Guy  dis- 
covered that  several  tiles  had  been  blown  from  the  roof, 
so  that  through  the  lath  and  plaster  above  her  head  there 
was  a  sound  of  demoniac  fife-playing.  Then  the  wind 
dropped;  the  rain  poured  down;  but  at  last  on  Lady 
Day  morning  Guy  woke  up  to  see  a  rich  sky  between 
white  magnificent  clouds,  a  gentle  breeze,  and  a  letter 
from  his  father. 

Fox  HALL,  GALTON,  HANTS, 
March  24th. 

DEAR  GUY, — I  send  you  this  with  the  third  instalment  of 
the  £150.  Please  let  me  have  a  prompter  acknowledgment  than 
last  time,  when,  I  remember,  you  kept  me  waiting  nearly  three 
weeks.  I  am  glad  to  have  news  of  successful  experiments  in 
verse-making,  but  I  should  be  much  more  glad  to  hear  that  you 
had  made  up  your  mind  to  make  them  as  an  accessory  to  a 
regular  profession.  You  will  notice  that  I  do  not  attempt  to 
influence  your  choice  in  this  matter,  and  so  I  hope  you  will  not 
retort  with  invidious  comparisons  between  literature  and  the 
teaching  of  small  boys. 

No,  I  do  not  remember  a  man  called  Grey  in  my  time  at 
Oxford,  but  I  do  remember  a  man  of  the  same  name  as  ours  at 
Trinity.  He  came  to  grief,  I  believe,  later  on.  You  must 
assure  your  friend  that  this  was  not  myself.  I  am  glad  you 
find  the  Rector  and  his  wife  such  pleasant  people.  Have  they 
any  children?  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  for  the  new  Vicar 
of  Galton,  who  is  a  pompous  nincompoop  and  has  introduced  a 
lot  of  his  High  Church  frippery  which  so  annoys  some  of  the 
parents.  Your  friend  is  lucky  to  be  able  to  afford  so  much 
leisure  for  gardening.  I  am  of  course  far  too  busy  to  think 
about  anything  like  that  except  in  the  Summer  holidays,  when 
flowers  would  scarcely  give  me  the  change  of  air  I  want.  This 
year  I  hope  to  come  and  see  you  for  a  week  or  two,  and  we 

If  4 


SPRING 

shall  be  able  to  discuss  the  future.     Don't  work  too  hard  and 
please  oblige  me  by  acknowledging  the  inclosed  cheque. 
Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  HAZLEWOOD. 

Guy  went  out  in  the  orchard  to  meditate  upon  the 
advisableness  of  telling  his  father  at  once  about  Pauline. 
If  he  were  coming  to  stay  here  next  August,  he  ought  to 
know  beforehand,  for  it  would  be  horrid  to  have  the 
atmosphere  of  Plashers  Mead  ruined  by  acrimonious  argu- 
ment. August,  however,  was  still  a  long  way  off,  and 
now  there  was  going  to  be  fine  weather  for  a  while,  which 
must  not  be  spoiled.  Besides,  perhaps  in  the  end  his  father 
would  not  come,  and,  anyway,  himself  would  be  having 
to  decide  presently  upon  a  more  definite  step.  He  would 
tell  Pauline,  when  he  saw  her  to-morrow,  that  he  ought 
to  go  up  to  London  and  get  some  journalistic  work  so  as 
to  bring  the  time  of  their  marriage  nearer.  Or  should  he 
wait  until  he  had  sounded  Michael  about  that  academy? 
Plashers  Mead  enlarged  itself  for  Guy's  vision  until  the 
orchard  was  a  quadrangle  famed  with  gray  cloisters,  along 
which  Parnassian  aspirants  walked  in  meditation.  Would 
any  of  them  be  married  except  himself  and  Pauline?  On 
the  whole,  he  decided  that  they  would  not,  though,  of 
course,  if  Michael  were  to  find  the  capital  he  must  be 
allowed  to  marry.  How  the  Balliol  people  would  laugh 
at  these  fantastic  plans,  thought  Guy,  and  he  stopped  for 
a  moment  from  the  architectonics  of  his  academy  to  laugh 
at  himself.  Certainly  it  would  be  better  not  to  publish  his 
plans  even  to  Pauline  until  they  showed  a  hint  of  con- 
ceivable maturity.  Guy  fell  back  into  the  comfort  of 
spacious  dreams,  wandering  up  and  down  the  orchard; 
and  round  about  him  the  starlings,  pranked  in  metallic 
plumage  of  green  and  bronze,  quarreled  over  the  holes  in 
the  apple-tree  they  coveted  for  their  nests. 

Suddenly  Guy  heard  his  name  called,  and,  looking  up, 
he  saw  across  the  mill-stream  Margaret  and  Pauline  stand- 
ing in  the  churchyard. 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"We've  been  to  church,"  said  Pauline.  "And  a  dead 
bat  fell  down  nearly  on  to  Father's  head  when  he  was 
giving  the  Blessing.  So  he  and  the  sacristan  have  gone 
up  in  the  tower  to  see  what  can  be  done  about  it." 

"Shall  I  come  and  help?"  Guy  suggested. 

"You  won't  be  able  to  do  any  more  than  they  will," 
said  Margaret,  laughing.  "  But  if  you  want  to  come  and 
help,  you'd  better.  Hasn't  your  canoe  arrived  yet?" 

Guy  shook  his  head. 

"It's  such  a  glorious  morning  that  I  could  almost  swim 
the  river,"  he  declared. 

"Oh,  Margaret,  don't  let  him,"  Pauline  exclaimed. 

Guy  said  he  would  be  in  the  churchyard  before  they 
were  back  in  Rectory  Lane  to  meet  him,  and  with  Bob 
barking  at  his  heels  he  ran  at  full  speed  through  the  or- 
chard, through  the  garden,  over  the  bridge,  and  down 
Rectory  Lane  just  as  the  two  girls  reached  the  lych-gate. 
They  all  went  into  the  big  church,  even  Bob,  though  he 
slunk  at  their  heels  as  modestly  as  might  the  devil. 
High  up  over  the  chancel  they  could  see  the  Rector  and 
the  shiny-pated  sacristan  leaning  from  the  windows  of 
the  bell-ringer's  chamber  and  scratching  with  wands  at 
some  blind  arches  where  bats  might  most  improbably 
lurk. 

"Let's  go  to  the  top  of  the  tower,"  Guy  proposed. 

"Father  isn't  on  the  top  of  the  tower,"  said  Margaret. 
"But  you  go  up  with  Pauline.  I'll  wait  for  you." 

So  Guy  and  Pauline  went  through  a  low  door  beaked 
by  Normans  centuries  ago,  and  climbed  the  stone  stairs 
until  they  reached  the  bell-ringer's  chamber,  where  they 
paused  to  greet  the  Rector,  who  waved  a  vague  arm  in 
greeting.  The  stairs  grew  more  narrow  and  musty  as  they 
went  higher;  but  all  the  way  at  intervals  there  were  deep 
slits  in  the  walls,  framing  thin  pictures  of  the  outspread 
country  below  the  tower.  Still  up  they  went  past  the 
bell-ropes,  past  the  great  bells  themselves  that  hung  like 
a  cluster  of  mighty  fruit,  until  finally  they  came  out 

116 


SPRING 

through  a  small  turret  to  meet  the  March  sky.  The 
spire,  that  rose  as  high  again  as  they  had  already  come, 
occupied  nearly  all  the  space  and  left  only  a  yard  of  leaded 
roof  on  which  to  walk;  but  even  so,  up  here  where  the 
breeze  blew  strongly,  they  seemed  to  stand  in  the  very 
course  of  the  clouds  with  the  world  at  their  feet.  North- 
ward they  looked  across  the  brown  mill-stream;  across 
Guy's  green  orchard;  across  the  flashing  tributary  be- 
yond the  meadows,  to  where  the  Shipcot  road  climbed  the 
side  of  the  wold.  Westward  they  looked  to  Flashers  Mead 
and  Miss  Peasey  flapping  a  table-cloth;  to  Guy's  mazy 
garden  and  the  gray  wall  under  the  limes;  and  farther  to 
the  tree-tops  of  Wychford  Abbey;  to  the  twining  waters 
of  the  valley  and  the  rounded  hills.  Southward  they 
looked  to  Wychford  town  in  tier  on  tier  of  shining  roofs; 
and  above  the  translucent  smoke  to  where  the  telegraph- 
poles  of  the  long  highway  went  rocketing  into  Gloucester- 
shire. And  lastly  eastward  they  looked  through  a  flight 
of  snowy  pigeons  to  the  Rectory  asleep  in  gardens  that 
already  were  painted  with  the  simple  flowers  of  Spring. 

Guy  took  Pauline's  hand  where  it  rested  on  the  para- 
pet. 

"Dearest,  Spring  is  here,"  he  said,  "and  this  is  our 
world  that  you  and  I  are  looking  at  to-day." 


APRIL 

PAULINE  in  the  happiness  which  had  come  to  her 
lately  had  forgotten  Miss  Verney;  and  when  one 
morning  she  met  that  solitary  spinster,  whose  pale  and 
watery  eyes  were  uttering  such  reproach,  she  promised 
impulsively  to  come  to  tea  that  very  afternoon  and  bring 
with  her  a  friend. 

"You've  certainly  quite  deserted  me  lately,"  said  Miss 
Verney,  in  that  wavering  falsetto  of  hers,  through  which 
the  echoes  maybe  of  a  once-admired  soprano  could  still 
be  distinctly  heard. 

"Oh,  but  I've  been  so  busy,  Miss  Verney." 

"Yes,  I  dare  say.  Well,  I  used  to  be  busy  once  myself. 
Here's  lovely  weather  for  the  first  of  April.  Quite  a 
treat  to  be  out  of  doors.  Now,  don't  make  an  April  fool 
of  your  poor  old  Miss  Verney  by  forgetting  to  come  this 
afternoon.  Who's  the  friend  you  are  anxious  to  bring?" 

"Mr.  Hazlewood.  He's  living  at  Flashers  Mead,  you 
know." 

"  Dear  me,  a  gentleman  ?  Then  he  won't  enjoy  coming 
to  see  me." 

"But  he  will,  Miss  Verney,  because  he  writes  poetry, 
and  you  know  you  told  me  once  that  you  used  to  write 
poetry." 

"Ah,  well,  dear  me,  that's  a  secret  I  should  never  have 
let  out.  Well,  good-by,  my  dear,  and  pray  don't  forget 
to  come,  for  I  shall  be  having  cakes,  you  know." 

Miss  Verney,  whose  unhappy  love-affair  in  a  dim  past 
had  been  Pauline's  cherished  secret  since  the  afternoon 

118 


SPRING 

of  her  seventeenth  birthday,  bowed  with  much  dignity; 
and  Pauline,  lest  she  should  offend  her  again,  had  to  turn 
round  several  times  to  smile  and  wave  farewells  before 
Miss  Verney  disappeared  into  the  confectioner's  shop. 

When  she  got  home  Pauline  asked  her  mother  if  she 
thought  it  mattered  taking  Guy  to  tea  with  Miss  Verney. 

"Because,  of  course,  she's  sure  to  guess  that  we're 
engaged." 

"But,  my  dear  child,  you're  not  really  engaged,  at  least 
not  publicly.  You  must  remember  that." 

"But  I  could  tell  Miss  Verney  as  a  great  secret.  And 
I  know  she  won't  tell  any  one  because  once  she  told  me 
a  great  secret  about  herself.  Besides,  she's  gone  to  buy 
cakes  for  tea,  and  if  I  don't  take  Guy  she'll  be  so  dread- 
fully disappointed." 

"Why  can't  you  take  Guy  without  saying  anything 
about  being  engaged?"  asked  Mrs.  Grey. 

"Oh,  because  Miss  Verney  is  so  frightfully  sharp,  es- 
pecially in  matters  of  love.  I  think  you  don't  like  her 
much,  Mother  darling,  but  really,  you  know,  she  is 
sympathetic." 

Mrs.  Grey  looked  hopelessly  round  for  advice,  but  as 
neither  Margaret  nor  Monica  was  in  the  room,  she  had  to 
give  way  to  Pauline's  entreaty,  and  the  leave  was  granted. 

When  Guy  arrived  at  the  Rectory  about  three  o'clock 
he  seemed  delighted  at  the  notion  of  going  out  to  tea 
with  Pauline,  though  he  looked  a  little  doubtfully  at  the 
others,  as  if  he  wondered  at  the  permission's  being  ac- 
corded. However,  they  set  out  in  an  atmosphere  of  good- 
will, and  Pauline  was  happy  to  have  him  beside  her  walk- 
ing up  Wychford  High  Street.  Miss  Verney's  house  was 
at  the  very  top  of  the  hill,  which  meant  that  the  eyes  of 
the  whole  population  had  to  be  encountered  before  they 
reached  it.  They  could  see  Miss  Verney  watching  for 
them  as  they  walked  across  the  slip  of  grass  that  with 
white  posts  and  a  festoon  of  white  chains  warded  off 
general  traffic.  The  moment  they  reached  the  gate  her 

119 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

head  vanished  from  the  window,  and  they  had  scarcely 
rung  the  bell  when  the  maid  had  opened  the  door;  and 
they  were  scarcely  inside  the  hall  when  Miss  Verney 
came  grandly  out  of  the  drawing-room  (which  was  not 
the  front  room)  to  greet  them. 

"How  d'ye  do?  How  d'ye  do?  Miss  Grey  will  have 
told  you  that  I  rarely  have  visitors.  And  therefore  this 
is  a  great  pleasure." 

Pauline  threw  sparkling  blue  glances  at  Guy  for  the 
Miss  Grey,  while  they  followed  her  into  the  drawing-room 
full  of  cats  and  ornaments.  The  cats  all  marched  round 
Guy  in  a  sort  of  solemn  quadrille,  so  that  what  with  the 
embarrassment  they  caused  to  his  legs  and  the  difficulty 
that  the  rest  of  him  found  with  the  ornaments,  Pauline 
really  had  to  lead  him  safely  to  a  chair. 

"Have  you  been  long  in  Wychford,  Mr.  Hazlewood?" 
inquired  Miss  Verney.  "I  fear  you'll  find  the  valley  very 
damp.  We  who  live  at  the  top  of  the  hill  consider  the 
air  up  here  so  much  more  bracing.  But  then,  you  see, 
my  father  was  a  sailor.5* 

So  the  conversation  progressed,  conversation  that  was 
cut  as  thinly  and  nicely  as  the  lozenges  of  bread  and 
butter,  fragments  of  which  on  various  parts  of  the  rug 
the  cats  were  eating  with  that  apparent  difficulty  cats 
always  find  in  mastication. 

"  I  sadly  spoil  my  pets,"  said  Miss  Verney.  "  For  really, 
you  see,  they  are  my  best  friends,  as  I  always  say  to  peo- 
ple who  look  surprised  at  my  indulgence  of  them.  .  .  . 
Would  you  mind  telling  Bellerophon  he's  left  a  piece  of 
butter  just  by  your  foot,  that  you  might  otherwise  tread 
into  the  carpet.  You'll  forgive  my  fussiness,  but  then, 
you  see,  my  father  was  a  sailor." 

Pauline  was  longing  to  know  what  Miss  Verney  thought 
of  Guy,  and  presently  when  tea  was  over  she  suggested 
that  he  should  be  shown  the  garden,  the  green  oblong 
of  which  looked  so  inviting  from  the  low  windows. 

"Dear  me,  the  garden,"  said  Miss  Verney.  "Rather 

120 


SPRING 

early  in  the  year,  don't  you  think,  for  the  garden?  My 
shoes.  For  though  my  father  was  a  sailor,  I  do  not,  alas! 
inherit  his  constitution.  I  really  think,  Pauline,  we  must 
wait  for  the  garden.  But  perhaps  Mr.  Hazlewood  would 
care.  . . ." 

"Guy,  you  must  see  the  garden,"  Pauline  declared. 

So  Guy  rose  and,  having  listened  to  Miss  Verney's 
instructions  about  the  key  in  the  garden  door,  went  out, 
followed  by  several  cats.  A  moment  later  they  saw  him, 
still  with  two  cats  in  attendance,  bending  with  an  appear- 
ance of  profound  interest  over  the  narrow  flower-beds 
that  fringed  the  grass. 

"I  declare  that  Pegasus  and  dear  Bellerophon  have 
taken  quite  a  fancy  to  him.  Most  remarkable  and 
gratifying,"  said  Miss  Verney,  watching  from  the  win- 
dow through  which  the  western  sun  flaming  upon  her  thin 
hair  kindled  a  few  golden  strands  from  the  ashes  that 
seemed  before  entirely  to  have  quenched  them. 

"Miss  Verney,  can  you  keep  a  secret?"  asked  Pauline, 
breathlessly. 

"My  dear,  you  forget  my  father  was  a  sailor,"  re- 
plied Miss  Verney,  supporting  with  each  arm  a  martial 
elbow. 

"He  and  I  are  engaged,"  Pauline  whispered  through 
a  blush. 

"Pauline,  you  amaze  me!"  the  old  maid  exclaimed. 
"My  dear  child,  I  hope  you'll  let  me  wish  you  happiness." 
She  came  to  Pauline  and  kissed  with  cold  lips  her  cheek. 
"You  have  always  been  so  kind  and  considerate  to  me. 
Yes,  I  am  sure,  without  irreverence  I  can  say  you  have 
been  to  me  as  welcome  as  the  sun.  I  pray  that  you  will 
always  be  happy.  Ah,  the  dear  fellow!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Verney,  looking  with  the  utmost  affection  to  where  Guy 
was  now  completing  the  circuit  of  her  borders.  "The 
dear  fellow,  how  droll  he  must  have  thought  it  when  I 
referred  to  you  as  Miss  Grey.  Though  to  this  flinging 
about  of  Christian  names  without  regard  for  the  sacred- 
9  121 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

ness  of  real  intimacy,  which  is  so  common  nowadays,  I 
shall  never  submit." 

Miss  Verney  tapped  upon  the  window  to  summon  Guy 
within  again.  When  he  was  back  in  the  drawing-room 
she  fluttered  towards  him  and  took  his  hand. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Hazlewood  (for,  my  father  having  been 
a  sailor,  I  must  always  be  rather  blunter  than  most  peo- 
ple), I  have  to  congratulate  you.  This  dear  child!  My 
greatest  friend  in  Wychford,  and  indeed,  really,  so  scat- 
tered now  are  all  the  people  I  have  known,  I  might  al- 
most say,  my  greatest  friend  anywhere!  You  are  a  most 
enviable  young  man.  But  the  secret  is  safe  with  me. 
No  one  shall  know." 

"I  had  to  tell  Miss  Verney,"  Pauline  explained 

"I'm  delighted  for  Miss  Verney  to  know,"  said  Guy. 
"I  only  wish  the  time  were  come  when  everybody  could 
know." 

Miss  Verney  was  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  excitement, 
and  made  so  many  references  to  her  nautical  paternity 
that  Pauline  half  expected  her  to  hitch  up  her  skirt  and 
dance  a  triumphant  hornpipe  in  the  middle  of  the  cats' 
slow  waltzing. 

"This  dear  child,"  Miss  Verney  went  on,  clasping 
rapturous  hands.  "I  have  known  her  since  she  was 
twelve.  The  dearest  little  thing!  I  really  wish  you  had 
known  her;  you  would  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  then, 
I  do  declare."  And  Miss  Verney  laughed  in  a  high 
treble  at  her  joke.  "Lately  I  have  been  rather  worried 
because  I  had  an  idea  I  was  being  deserted.  But  now  I 
understand  the  reason.  Oh,  the  secret  is  perfectly  safe. 
In  me  you  have  a  true  sympathizer.  Pauline  will  tell 
you  that  with  the  people  she  loves,  there  is  no  one  so 
sympathetic  as  I  am."  Suddenly  Miss  Verney  stopped 
and  looked  very  suspicious.  "You're  not  making  an 
April  fool  of  me?"  she  asked. 

"Miss  Verney!"  Pauline  gasped.  "How  could  you 
think  I  would  joke  about  love?" 

122 


SPRING 

The  old  maid's  forehead  cleared. 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't,  my  dear,  but  really  this 
morning  I  have  been  so  pestered  by  some  of  the  boys 
ringing  the  bell  and  saying  my  chimney  is  on  fire  that 
.  .  .  ah,  but  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  You  must  forgive 
me,  Pauline.  And  is  it  not  the  thing  to  drink  the  health 
of  lovers?  There  is  a  bottle  of  sherry,  I  feel  sure.  I 
brought  several  bottles  that  were  left  from  my  father's 
cellar,  when  I  first  came  to  Wychford,  eight  years  ago, 
and  they  have  not  all  been  drunk  yet." 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  when  the  maid  came  in  said: 

"Mabel,  if  you  take  my  keys  and  open  the  store-cup- 
board, you  will  find  some  bottles  of  wine  on  the  top  shelf. 
Pray  open  one,  and,  having  carefully  decanted  it,  bring 
it  as  carefully  in  with  three  glasses  on  the  silver  tray." 

Mabel  naturally  looked  very  much  astonished  at  this 
order,  and  while  she  was  gone  Miss  Verney  thought  one 
after  another  of  all  the  reasons  that  Mabel  could  possibly 
ascribe  to  her  request  for  wine. 

"But  she  will  never  guess  the  real  one,"  said  Miss 
Verney. 

The  wine  was  brought  in  and  poured  out.  Miss  Verney 
coughed  a  great  deal  over  her  glass,  and  two  small  pink 
spots  appeared  on  her  cheeks. 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "that  when  my  dear  father 
brought  this  wine  back  from  Portugal  he  would  have 
been  happy  to  know  that  some  of  it  would  be  drunk  to 
the  health  of  two  young  people  in  love.  For  he  was,  if 
I  may  say  so  without  impropriety,  a  great  lady's  man." 

Pauline  and  Guy  drank  Miss  Verney's  health  in  turn, 
and  thanked  her  for  the  good  omens  she  had  wished  for 
their  love. 

"My  dear  Pauline,"  said  Miss  Verney,  "do  you  think? 
I  wonder  if  I  dare?  You  know  what  I  mean?  Do  you 
think  I  could  show  it  to  Mr.  Hazlewood?" 

"Do  you  mean  the  miniature?"  whispered  Pauline. 

Miss  Verney  nodded. 

123 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

*'Oh,  do,  Miss  Verney,  do!  Guy  would  so  appreciate 
it,"  Pauline  declared. 

The  old  maid  went  to  her  bureau  and  from  a  small 
locked  drawer  took  out  a  leather  case  which  she  handed 
to  Guy. 

"The  spring  is  broken.  It  opens  very  easily,"  she  said 
in  a  gentle  voice. 

Pauline  forgot  her  shyness  of  Guy  and  leaned  over  his 
shoulder  while  he  looked  at  the  picture  of  a  young  man 
rosy  with  that  too  blooming  youth  which  miniatures  al- 
ways portray. 

"We  were  engaged  to  be  married,"  said  Miss  Verney. 
"But  circumstances  alter  cases;  and  we  were  never 
married." 

Pauline  looked  down  at  Guy  with  tears  in  her  eyes  and 
felt  miserable  to  be  so  happy  when  poor  Miss  Verney  had 
been  so  sad. 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  showing  me  that,"  said 
Guy. 

Soon  it  was  time  to  say  good-by  to  Miss  Verney  and, 
having  made  many  promises  to  come  quickly  again,  they 
left  her  and  went  down  the  steep  High  Street,  where  in 
many  of  the  windows  of  the  houses  there  were  hyacinths 
and  on  the  old  walls  plum-trees  in  bloom. 

"Pauline,"  said  Guy,  "let's  go  for  a  walk  to-morrow 
morning  and  see  if  the  gorse  is  in  bloom  on  Wychford 
down.  There  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  tell  you." 

"Do  you  think  Mother  will  let  us?" 

"If  we  can  go  to  tea  with  Miss  Verney,"  said  Guy, 
"we  shall  be  able  to  go  for  a  walk.  And  I  never  see  you 
alone  in  the  Rectory." 

"I'll  ask  Mother,"  said  Pauline. 

"You  want  to  come?" 

"Of  course.    Of  course." 

"You  see,"  said  Guy,  "it's  one  of  the  places  where  I 
nearly  told  you  I  loved  you.  And  it  wouldn't  be  fair 
not  to  tell  you  there,  as  soon  as  I  can/' 

124 


SPRING 

In  the  Rectory  everybody  was  anxious  to  know  how 
Guy  liked  Pauline's  Miss  Verney. 

"Margaret,  you  are  really  unkind  to  laugh  at  her," 
protested  Pauline.  "Guy  understands,  if  you  don't,  how 
frightfully  sympathetic  she  is.  She  is  one  of  the  people 
who  really  understands  about  being  in  love." 

Margaret  laughed. 

"Don't  I?"  she  said. 

"No,  indeed,  Margaret,  sometimes  I  don't  think  you 
do,"  said  Pauline. 

"Nor  I?"  asked  Monica. 

"You  don't  at  all!"  Pauline  protested. 

"Well,  if  it  means  being  like  Miss  Verney,  I  hope  I 
never  shall,"  said  Monica. 

"Now,  children,  children,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Grey. 
"You  must  not  be  cross  with  one  another." 

"Well,  Mother,  Margaret  and  Monica  are  not  to  laugh 
at  Miss  Verney,"  Pauline  insisted.  "And  to-morrow  Guy 
and  I  want  as  a  great  exception  to  go  for  a  walk  to  Wych- 
ford  down.  May  we?" 

"Well,  as  a  great  exception,  yes,"  said  ]VJrs.  Grey;  and 
Guy,  with  apparently  an  access  of  grateful  industry,  said 
he  must  go  home  and  work. 

Pauline  wondered  what  Guy  would  have  to  tell  her  to- 
morrow, and  she  fell  asleep  that  night  hoping  she  would 
not  be  shy  to-morrow;  for,  since  Guy  was  still  no  more 
to  Pauline  than  the  personification  of  a  vague  and  happy 
love  just  as  Miss  Verney's  miniature  was  the  personifica- 
tion of  one  that  was  not  happy,  she  always  was  a  little 
alarmed  when  the  personification  became  real. 

Wychford  down  seemed  to  rest  on  billowy  clouds  next 
morning,  so  light  was  Pauline's  heart,  so  light  was  the 
earth  on  which  she  walked;  and  when  Guy  kissed  her 
the  larks  in  their  blue  world  were  not  far  away,  so  near 
did  she  soar  upon  his  kiss  to  the  rays  of  their  glittering 
plumes. 

"Every  time  I  see  you,"  said  Guy,  "the  world  seems 

125 


FLASHERS   MEAD 

to  offer  itself  to  us  more  completely.  I  never  kissed  you 
before  under  the  sky  like  this." 

She  wished  he  would  not  say  the  actual  word,  for  it 
made  her  realize  herself  in  his  arms  and  brought  back 
in  a  flood  all  her  shyness. 

"I  think  it's  dry  enough  to  sit  on  this  stone,"  said 
Guy. 

So  they  sat  on  one  of  the  outcrops  of  Wychford  free- 
stone that  all  around  were  thrusting  themselves  up  from 
the  grass  like  old  gray  animals. 

"Now  tell  me  more  about  Miss  Verney,"  he  went  on. 
"Why  was  her  love-affair  unhappy?" 

"Oh,  she  never  told  me  much,"  said  Pauline. 

"You  and  I  haven't  very  long,"  said  Guy.  "Love 
travels  by  so  fast.  You  and  I  mustn't  have  secrets." 

"I  haven't  any  secrets,"  said  Pauline.  "I  had  one 
about  Richard,  but  you  know  about  him.  And  that 
was  Margaret's  secret,  really.  Why  do  you  say  that, 
Guy?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  myself,"  he  answered.  "I  was 
thinking  how  little  you  know  about  me — really  not  much 
more  than  you  know  of  Miss  Verney's  miniature." 

"Guy,  how  strange,"  she  said.  "Last  night  I  thought 
that." 

Then  he  began  to  talk  in  halting  sentences,  turned  away 
from  her  all  the  time  and  digging  his  stick  deep  down  in 
the  turf,  while  Bob  looked  in  with  anxious  curiosity  for 
what  these  excavations  would  produce. 

"Pauline,  I  so  adore  you  that  it  clouds  everything  to 
realize  that  before  I  loved  you  I  should  have  had  love- 
affairs  with  other  girls.  Of  course  they  meant  nothing, 
but  now  they  make  me  miserable.  Shall  I  tell  you  about 
them  or  shall  I  ...  Can  I  blot  them  for  ever  out  of  my 
mind?" 

"Oh,  don't  tell  me  about  them,  don't  tell  me  about 
them,"  Pauline  murmured  in  a  low,  hurried  voice.  She 
felt  that  if  Guy  said  another  word  she  would  run  from 

126 


SPRING 

him  in  a  wild  terror  that  would  never  let  her  rest,  that 
would  urge  her  out  over  the  down's  edge  in  desperate 
descent. 

"I  don't  want  to  tell  you  about  them,"  said  Guy. 
"  But  they've  stood  so  at  the  back  of  my  thoughts  when- 
ever I  have  been  with  you;  and  yesterday  at  MissVerney's, 
I  had  a  sense  of  guilt  as  if  I  were  responsible  in  some  way 
for  her  unhappiness.  I  had  to  tell  you,  Pauline." 

She  sat  silent  under  the  song  of  the  larks  that  in  streams 
of  melodious  light  poured  through  their  wings. 

"Why  do  you  say  nothing?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more.  Promise  me 
never  to  talk  about  it.  Oh,  Guy,  why  'of  course'  ?  Why 
*  of  course'?" 

"Of  course?"  he  repeated. 

"'Of  course  they  meant  nothing.'  That  seems  so 
dreadful  to  me.  Perhaps  you  won't  understand." 

"Dear  Pauline,  isn't  that  'of  course'  the  reason  they 
torment  me?"  he  said.  "It  isn't  kind  of  you  to  assume 
anything  else." 

She  forgave  him  in  that  instant;  and  before  she  knew 
what  she  had  done  had  put  her  hand  impulsively  on  his. 
To  the  Pauline  who  made  that  gesture  he  was  no  more 
the  unapproachable  lover,  but  some  one  whom  she  had 
wounded  involuntarily. 

"My  heart  of  hearts,  my  adored  Pauline." 

With  a  sigh  she  faded  to  him;  with  a  sigh  the  dog  sat 
down  by  his  master's  neglected  stick;  with  a  sigh  the 
April  wind  stole  through  the  thickets  of  gorse  and  out 
over  the  down.  And  always  more  and  more  dauntlessly 
the  larks  flung  before  them  their  fountainous  notes  to 
pierce  those  blue  spaces  that  burned  between  the  clouds. 
No  more  was  said  of  the  past  that  morning,  and  with 
April  come  they  were  happy  sitting  up  there,  although,  as 
Guy  said,  such  weather  could  hardly  be  expected  to  last. 
And  since  this  walk  was  a  great  exception  to  the  rule  of 
their  life,  they  were  back  at  the  Rectory  very  punctually, 

127 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

so  that  by  propitiating  everybody  with  good  behavior 
they  might  soon  demand  another  exception. 

That  night  there  recurred  to  Pauline,  when  she  was  in 
her  room,  a  sudden  memory  of  what  Guy  had  said  to 
her  about  girls  with  whom  he  had  had  love-affairs;  and 
with  the  stark  forms  of  shadows  they  made  a  procession 
across  her  walls  in  the  candle-light.  She  wished  now  she 
had  let  Guy  tell  her  more,  so  that  she  could  give  dis- 
tinguishing lineaments  of  humanity  to  each  of  these  mad- 
dening figures.  What  were  they  like  and  why,  taken 
unaware,  was  she  set  on  fire  with  rage  to  know  them? 
For  a  long  while  Pauline  tossed  sleeplessly  on  that  bed 
to  which  usually  morning  came  so  soon;  and  even  when 
the  candle  was  put  out  she  seemed  to  feel  these  forms  of 
Guy's  confession  all  about  her.  To-morrow  she  must  see 
him  again;  she  could  no  longer  bear  to  think  of  him  alone. 
These  shapes  that  from  his  past  vaguely  jeered  at  her  were 
to  him  endowed,  each,  with  what  memories?  Oh,  she 
could  cry  out  with  exasperation  even  in  this  silent  house 
where  she  had  lived  so  long  unvexed! 

"What  is  happening  to  me?  What  is  happening  to 
me?"  asked  Pauline,  as  the  darkness  drew  nearer  to  her. 
"Why  doesn't  Margaret  come?" 

She  jumped  out  of  bed  and  ran  trembling  to  her  sister's 
room. 

"Pauline,  what  is  it?"  asked  Margaret,  starting  up. 

"I'm  frightened,  Margaret.  I'm  frightened.  My  room 
seemed  full  of  people." 

"You  goose.    What  people?" 

"Oh,  Margaret,  I  do  love  you." 

She  kissed  her  sister  passionately;  and  Margaret,  who 
was  usually  so  lazy,  got  out  of  bed  and  came  back  with 
her  to  her  room,  where  she  read  aloud  Alice  in  Wonder- 
land, sitting  by  the  bed  with  her  dark  hair  fallen  about 
her  slim  shoulders. 

In  the  morning  the  impression  of  the  night's  alarm 
remained  sharply  enough  with  Pauline  to  make  her  anx- 

128 


SPRING 

ious  to  see  Guy,  without  waiting  for  the  ordained  interval 
to  which  they  should  submit;  and  all  that  day,  when  he 
did  not  come,  for  the  first  time  she  felt  definitely  the 
clamorous  and  persistent  desire  for  his  company,  the 
absence  of  which  the  old  perfection  of  her  home  was  no 
longer  able  to  counteract.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
the  Rectory  had  a  sort  of  emptiness;  and  there  was  not 
a  room  on  this  tediously  beautiful  day,  nor  any  nook  in 
the  garden,  which  could  calm  her  with  the  familiar  assur- 
ance of  home.  When  the  time  for  music  came  round, 
that  night,  it  seemed  to  Pauline  not  at  all  worth  while 
to  play  quartets  in  celebration  of  a  day  that  had  been  so 
barren  of  events. 

"Don't  you  want  to  play?"  they  asked  her  in  surprise. 

"Why  should  we  play?"  she  countered.  "But  I'll 
listen  to  you,  if  you  like." 

Of  course  she  was  persuaded  into  taking  her  part,  and 
never  had  she  been  so  often  out  of  tune  and  never  had 
her  strings  snapped  so  continuously.  Always  until  to- 
night the  performance  of  music  had  brought  to  her  the 
peaceful  irresponsibilities  of  being  herself  in  a  pattern; 
now  this  sense  of  design  was  irritating  her  with  an  ardu- 
ous repression,  until  at  last  she  put  down  her  violin  and 
refused  to  play  any  more.  Pauline  felt  that  the  others 
knew  the  cause  of  her  ill-temper,  but  none  of  them  said 
anything  about  Guy,  and,  with  her  for  audience  in  one 
of  the  Caroline  chairs,  they  played  trios  instead. 

Next  day  when  Guy  did  come  it  was  wet;  and  Pauline 
wished  Margaret  would  leave  them  together,  so  that  they 
could  talk;  but  Margaret  stayed  all  the  afternoon  in  the 
nursery,  and  Pauline  made  up  her  mind  that  somehow 
she  must  go  for  another  walk  with  Guy. 

She  found  her  mother  alone  in  the  drawing-room  before 
dinner. 

"Mother,  don't  you  think  Guy  and  I  might  go  for  a 
walk  to-morrow?" 

"Oh,  Pauline,  you  went  for  a  walk  together  only  the 

129 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

day  before  yesterday.  And  you  really  must  remember 
you're  not  engaged.  The  Wychford  people  will  gossip 
so,  and  that  will  make  your  father  angry." 

"Well,  why  can't  we  be  engaged  openly?" 

"No,  not  yet.  Now,  please  don't  ask  me.  Pauline,  I 
beg  you  will  say  no  more  about  it." 

"Then  I  can  go  to-morrow,"  said  Pauline.  "Oh, 
Mother,  you  are  so  sweet  to  me." 

Mrs.  Grey  looked  rather  perplexed  and  as  if  she  were 
vainly  trying  to  determine  what  she  had  said  to  make 
Pauline  suppose  that  leave  for  walks  had  been  given. 
However,  she  evidently  supposed  it  had;  and  when  next 
Guy  came  to  the  Rectory  Pauline  whispered  to  him  they 
could  go  for  a  walk  if  they  did  not  have  to  go  through 
Wychford.  She  could  not  understand  herself  when  she 
found  it  so  difficult  to  tell  Guy  this  delightful  news,  for 
it  was  she  who  had  managed  it;  and  yet  here  she  was 
blushing  in  the  revelation. 

The  fact  that  Wychford  was  out  of  bounds  really  made 
their  walk  more  magical,  for  Pauline  and  Guy  went  past 
the  lily-pond  and  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house  and 
slipped  through  the  little  wicket  in  the  high  gray  wall, 
as  it  were  in  the  very  eye  of  the  nursery  window.  They 
dallied  for  a  while  in  the  paddock,  peering  for  fritillary 
buds;  then  they  crossed  the  rickety  bridge  to  the  water- 
meadows,  a  territory  not  spied  upon,  silver-rosed  with 
lady-smocks.  To-day  they  would  visit  the  peninsula 
where  under  the  moon  they  first  had  met. 

Pauline,  as  they  walked  over  the  meads,  no  longer  had 
the  desire  to  ask  Guy  more  about  his  tale  of  old  loves. 
His  presence  beside  her  had  rested  her  fears;  and  she  made 
up  her  mind  that  the  disquiet  of  the  other  evening  had 
been  mere  fatigue  after  the  excitement  of  the  day.  This 
secluded  world  from  which  they  were  now  approaching 
the  even  greater  seclusion  of  their  peninsula  gave  itself 
all  to  her  and  Guy. 

''How  often  have  I  been  here  without  you!"  said  Guy. 

130 


SPRING 

"How  often  have  I  wished  you  were  beside  me,  and  now 
you  are  beside  me." 

They  were  standing  in  a  wreath  of  snowy  blackthorn 
that  almost  veiled  even  the  narrow  entrance  to  this 
demesne  they  held  in  fief  of  April. 

"What  did  you  think  about  me  that  night  we  met?" 
Guy  asked. 

And  for  perhaps  the  hundredth  time  she  whispered  how 
she  had  liked  him  very  much. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  me  what  I  thought  about  you?" 

"What  did  you?"  she  whispered  again. 

"I  went  to  sleep  thinking  of  you,"  he  said.  "I  did  not 
know  your  name.  I  loved  you  then,  I  think.  Pauline, 
when  next  September  comes  we'll  pick  mushrooms  to- 
gether— shall  we?  And  I  shall  never  gather  any  mush- 
rooms, because  I  shall  always  be  gathering  your  hands. 
And  the  September  afterwards.  Pauline!  Shall  we  be 
married?  Pauline  Hazlewood!  Say  that," 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Whisper  it." 

But  she  could  not,  and  yet  in  her  heart  the  foolish 
names  were  singing  together. 

"How  can  I  leave  you?"  Guy  demanded. 

"Leave  me?"  she  echoed. 

"  I  ought.  I  ought.  You  see,  if  I  don't  I  shall  never 
persuade  my  father  that  we  must  be  married  next  year. 
I  must  go  to  London  and  show  that  I'm  in  earnest." 

"But  when  will  you  go?"  said  Pauline  in  deep  dismay. 

"Is  your  voice  sad?"  he  asked.  "Pauline,  don't  you 
want  me  to  go  ?" 

"Of  course  I  don't,"  she  replied,  turning  up  to  his  a 
face  so  miserable  that  he  held  her  to  him  and  vowed  he 
would  not  go. 

"My  dearest,  I  only  thought  it  was  my  duty,  but  if 
you  will  believe  in  me,  then  let  me  stay  in  Wychford. 
After  all,  you  are  young.  I  am  young.  Why,  you  won't 
be  twenty  till  May  Morning.  And  I  sha'n't  be  twenty- 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

three  till  next  August.  Even  if  we  wait  three  years  to 
be  married,  we  shall  be  always  together,  and  it  won't 
seem  so  long." 

So  with  her  arm  in  his  Pauline  walked  on  through  the 
lady-smocks,  thinking  that  never  had  any  one  a  lover  so 
wonderful  as  this  long-legged  lover  beside  her. 

Holy  Week  was  at  hand,  and  in  the  variety  of  functions 
that  Monica  insisted  her  father  should  hold  and  her 
family  attend  Pauline  saw  little  of  Guy,  although  he  came 
very  often  to  church,  sitting  as  stiff  and  awkward,  she 
thought,  as  a  brass  knight  on  a  tomb.  However,  it  pleased 
her  greatly  Guy  should  come  to  church,  since  it  pleased 
her  family.  Yet  that  was  least  of  all  the  true  reason, 
and  Pauline  used  to  send  the  angels  that  came  to  visit 
her  down  through  the  church  to  visit  Guy;  her  simple 
faith  glowed  with  richer  illumination  when  she  thought 
of  him  in  church,  and  while  her  mother  and  Monica  tried 
to  pull  the  Wychford  choir  through  the  notation  of  Soles- 
mes,  and  while  Margaret  knelt  apart  in  carved  abstrac- 
tion, Pauline  prayed  that  Guy  would  all  his  life  wish  to 
keep  Holy  Week  with  her  like  this. 

Pauline  hurried  through  a  shower  to  church  on  Easter 
Morning,  and  shook  mingled  tears  and  raindrops  from 
herself  when  she  saw  that  Guy  was  come  to  Communion. 
So  then  that  angel  had  traveled  from  her  bedside  last 
night  to  hover  over  Guy  and  bid  him  wake  early  next 
morning,  because  it  was  Easter  Day.  With  never  so  holy 
a  calm  had  she  knelt  in  the  jeweled  shadows  of  that 
chancel  or  retired  from  the  altar  to  find  her  pew  im- 
paradised.  When  the  people  came  out  of  church  the  sun 
was  shining,  and  on  the  trees  and  on  the  tombstones  a 
multitude  of  birds  were  singing.  Never  had  Pauline  felt 
the  spirit  of  Eastertide  uplift  her  with  such  a  joy,  joy  for 
her  lover  beside  her,  joy  for  Summer  close  at  hand,  joy 
for  all  the  joy  that  Easter  could  bring  to  the  soul. 

There  were  Easter  eggs  at  breakfast  dyed  yellow,  blue, 
and  purple.  There  were  new  white  trumpet  daffodils 

132 


SPRING 

for  the  Rector  to  gaze  at.  There  was  satisfaction  for 
Monica  in  having  defeated  for  ever  Anglican  chants, 
and  for  Margaret  a  letter  from  Richard,  though,  to 
be  sure,  she  did  not  seem  so  glad  of  this  as  Pauline 
would  have  wished.  There  was  all  that  happy  scene 
and  a  new  quartet  for  her  mother;  and  for  Guy  and 
herself  there  was  a  long  walk  this  afternoon  to  wherever 
they  wanted  to  go. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  week  Monica  and  Margaretwent 
away  on  a  visit,  to  which  they  set  out  with  the  usual 
lamentations  now  redoubled  because  they  suddenly  real- 
ized it  was  universal  holiday  time.  With  her  two  eldest 
daughters  away  from  the  Rectory,  Mrs.  Grey  was  no 
match  for  Pauline;  so  she  and  Guy  had  a  week  of  free- 
dom, wandering  over  the  country  where  they  willed. 

Wychford  down  saw  them,  and  the  water-meadows  of 
the  western  valley.  The  road  to  Fairfield  knew  their 
footsteps,  and  they  even  went  to  tea  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ford,  who  talked  of  Richard  out  in  India  and  bemoaned 
the  inferiority  of  their  garden  to  the  Rector's.  They 
wandered  by  treeless  roads  that  led  to  the  hills,  and  to 
the  grassy  solitudes  that  seemed  made  to  be  walked  over 
hand  in  hand.  Once  they  went  as  far  as  the  forest  of 
Wych,  a  wild  woodland  that  lay  remote  from  any  village 
and  where  along  the  glades  myriads  of  primroses  stared  at 
them.  Yet,  though  that  day  had  seemed  to  Pauline  al- 
most more  delicately  fair  than  any  of  their  days,  it  ended 
dismally  with  April  in  black  misfeature,  and  before  they 
reached  home  they  were  wet  through. 

By  ill  luck  her  mother  met  her  just  as  she  was  hurrying 
up  to  her  room. 

"Pauline,"  she  said,  with  a  good  deal  of  agitation,  "I 
must  forbid  these  walks  with  Guy  every  day.  Wet  to 
the  skin!  Oh  dear,  how  careless  of  him  to  take  you  so 
far!  You  must  be  reasonable  and  unselfish.  It's  so 
difficult  for  me.  Father  asked  where  you  were  this  after- 
noon, and  I  had  to  pretend  to  be  deaf.  He  notices  more 

133 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

than  you  think.  Now  really  Guy  must  not  come  for  a 
week,  and  there  must  be  no  more  walks." 

Guy,  however,  came  the  next  afternoon,  and  not  only 
was  he  reproved  by  Mrs.  Grey  for  yesterday's  disaster, 
but  actually  he  and  Pauline  were  allowed  only  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  together  in  the  garden. 

"  I'll  go  into  Oxford  for  a  week,"  said  Guy,  with  inspira- 
tion. "And  then  we  sha'n't  be  tempted  to  see  each 
other  this  week,  and  if  we  don't  see  each  other  this  week, 
perhaps  next  week  we  shall  be  able  to  go  out  again. 
Besides,  I  want  to  make  arrangements  about  bringing  the 
canoe  down.  My  friend  Fane  has  wired  to  me  to  go  and 
stay  with  him.  He's  up  for  the  Easter  vac,  working. 
Shall  I  go?" 

Pauline  wanted  to  say  no,  but  she  was,  even  after  all 
these  walks,  still  too  shy  to  bid  him  stay. 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  go,"  she  agreed.  "But,  Guy, 
come  back  for  my  birthday." 

"As  if  I  should  stay  away  for  that!  Pauline,  will  you 
write  to  me?  At  least  in  letters  you  won't  be  shy  to  say 
you  love  me." 

"Oh  no,  Guy,  no.    My  writing  is  so  horrid." 

"But  you  must  write.  Pauline,  if  you  want  to  know 
why  I'm  really  going  away,  it's  simply  to  have  a  letter 
from  you." 

"You  must  write  to  me  first  then,"  she  whispered. 

In  truth  Pauline  felt  terrified  to  think  how  she  would 
ever  begin  a  letter  to  Guy.  He  would  cease  to  love  her 
any  more  after  she  had  written  to  him.  He  would  hate 
her  stupid  letters. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  Michael  again,"  said  Guy.  "But 
I  suppose  I  must  not  say  anything  about  you.  No,  I 
won't  talk  about  you.  Oxford  will  be  wonderfully  quiet 
without  undergraduates,  and  I  shall  have  letters  from 
you." 

Mrs.  Grey  came  out  into  the  garden. 

"Now,  Guy,  I  think  you  ought  to  go.  Because 

134 


SPRING 

really  the   Rector   is   getting   worried    about   you   and 
Pauline." 

"I'm  going  into  Oxford,  Mrs.  Grey." 
"Well,  that  is  a  charming  idea — charming,  yes." 
"But  I'll  be  back  for  Pauline's  birthday." 
"Charming — charming,"    Mrs.    Grey    still    declared. 
"The  Rector  will  have  forgotten  all  about  it  by  then." 
So   Guy  left    Pauline   for   a  week,    and   perhaps   for 
more  than  a  week.     Margaret  and  Monica  came  home 
next  day,  and  really,  she  thought,  it  was  upsetting  all  the 
old  ways  of  her  life  when  she  found  herself  not  very  much 
interested  in  what  they  had  been  doing.     Miss  Verney 
with  her  ecstatic  praise  of  Guy  was  better  company; 
but  next  morning  her  first  love-letter  arrived,  and  she 
could  not  resist  peeping  into  it  at  breakfast. 

99  ST.  GILES,  OXFORD, 

April  i8th. 

MY  ADORED  PAULINE, — It's  really  all  I  can  do  to  stay  in  Ox- 
ford. Even  Fane  seems  dull,  and  though  his  rooms  are  jolly,  I 
long  for  you. 

Have  I  told  you  what  you  are  to  me?  Have  I  once  been 
able  to  tell  you.  .  .  . 

Ah,  there  were  pages  crammed  full  and  full  of  words 
that  she  must  read  alone.  She  could  not  read  them  here 
with  her  mother  and  sisters  looking  at  her  over  the  table. 
She  must  read  them  high  in  her  white  fastness  at  the  top 
of  the  house.  There  all  the  morning  she  sat,  and  when 
she  had  read  of  his  love  once,  she  read  of  it  again  and 
then  again,  and  once  again.  How  foolish  her  answering 
letter  would  be;  how  disappointed  Guy  would  be;  but 
since  she  had  promised,  she  must  write  to  him;  and, 
sitting  at  her  desk  that  was  full  of  childish  things,  she 
curled  herself  over  the  note-paper. 


MAY 

A  PLEASANT  company  of  thoughts  traveled  with 
Guy  and  his  bicycle  on  the  road  to  Oxford.  In 
this  easy  progress  the  material  hindrances  to  marriage 
were  not  seeming  very  important,  and  as  he  thought  of 
his  love  for  Pauline  it  spread  before  him,  untroublous  like 
the  road  down  which  he  was  spinning  before  a  light  breeze. 
With  so  much  to  compensate  for  their  brief  parting  it 
was  impossible  to  feel  depressed;  and  as  Guy  drew  near 
the  city  he  felt  he  was  an  undergraduate  again;  and  when 
he  greeted  Michael  Fane  in  St.  Giles  he  could  positively 
hear  his  own  Oxford  drawl  again.  It  was  really  delightful 
to  be  sitting  here  in  view  of  his  old  college;  and  when 
after  lunch  he  and  Michael  started  for  Wytham  woods, 
more  and  more  Guy  was  in  an  Oxford  dream  and  carry- 
ing off  the  fantastic  notion  of  the  Parnassian  academy 
with  all  the  debonair  confidence  of  his  second  year.  Yet 
Guy  knew  that  the  scheme  was  absurd,  and  when  Michael 
argued  against  it  in  his  solemn  way  he  found  himself 
taking  the  other  side  from  a  mere  undergraduate  pleasure 
in  argument.  Indeed,  Michael  declared  he  had  become  a 
freshman  since  he  went  down,  which  made  Guy  stop  dead, 
ankle-deep  in  kingcups,  and  laugh  aloud  for  his  youth, 
with  hidden  thoughts  of  Pauline  to  make  him  rejoice  that 
he  was  young.  He  laughed  again  at  Michael's  serious- 
ness and  flung  his  scheme  to  the  broad  clouds,  for  on  this 
generous  day  he  and  Pauline  were  enough,  and  neither 
anybody  else's  opinion  nor  anybody  else's  help  was  worth 
a  second  thought.  The  heartening  warmth,  however,  did 

136 


SPRING 

not  last;  and  when  towards  evening  the  sun  faded  in  a 
blanch  of  watery  clouds  with  a  cold  wind  for  aftermath, 
Guy  felt  Michael  might  have  been  more  sympathetic. 
Rather  silently  they  walked  Back  from  Godstow,  with 
Pauline  between  them;  so  that,  after  all,  Guy  thought, 
Michael  was  still  an  undergraduate,  whereas  he  had  em- 
barked upon  life. 

That  night,  however,  when  the  curtains  were  drawn 
across  Michael's  bay  window  that  overhung  the  whis- 
pering and  ancient  thoroughfare;  when  the  fire  burned 
high  and  the  tobacco  smoke  clouded  the  glimmer  of  the 
books  on  the  walls;  when  his  chair  creaked  with  that  old 
Oxford  creaking — Guy  forgave  Michael  for  any  lack  in  his 
reception  of  the  great  plan.  After  all,  he  was  writing  to 
Pauline  while  his  host  was  reading  the  Constitutional 
History  of  England  at  a  table  littered  with  heavy  volumes, 
on  which  he  brooded  like  a  melancholy  spectator  of  ruins. 
He  must  not  be  hard  on  Michael,  who  had  not  yet  touched 
life,  when  for  himself  the  vision  of  Pauline  was  wreathing 
this  old  room  with  starry  blooms  of  wild  rose.  The  letter 
was  finished,  and  Guy  went  out  to  drop  it  in  the  pillar- 
box.  His  old  college  brooded  at  him  across  the  road; 
to-morrow  Pauline  would  get  his  letter;  to-night  there 
would  be  rain;  to-morrow  Pauline  would  get  his  letter! 
The  envelope,  as  it  shuffled  down  into  the  letter-box, 
seemed  to  say  "yes." 

When  Guy  was  back  in  the  funny  St.  Giles  room,  he 
decided  there  was  something  rather  finely  ascetic  about 
Michael  seated  there  and  reading  imperturbably  in  the 
lamplight.  His  courteously  fatigued  manner  was  merely 
that  of  the  idealist  who  had  overreached  himself;  there 
was  nothing  bilious  about  him,  not  even  so  much  cynicism 
as  had  slightly  chilled  Guy's  own  career  at  Oxford;  rather 
did  there  emanate  from  Michael  a  kind  of  medieval 
steadfastness  comparable  only  to  those  stone  faces  that 
look  calmly  down  upon  the  transitory  congregations  of 
their  church.  Michael  had  this  solemn  presence  that 
jo  137 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

demanded  an  upward  look,  and  once  again  an  upward 
look,  until  without  conversation  the  solemnity  became 
a  little  disquieting.  Guy  felt  bound  to  interrupt  with 
light-hearted  talk  of  his  own  that  slow,  still  gaze  across 
the  lampshine. 

"Dash  it,  Michael!  don't  brood  there  like  a  Memento 
Mori.  Put  away  Magna  Charta  and  talk  to  me.  You 
used  to  talk." 

"You  talk,  Guy.  You've  been  living  alone  all  this 
time.  You  must  have  a  great  deal  to  say." 

So  Guy  flung  theories  of  rhyme  and  meter  to  over- 
whelm Magna  Charta;  and,  next  day,  he  and  Michael 
walked  all  over  Oxford  in  the  rain,  he  himself  still  talking. 
The  day  after  there  came  with  the  sun  a  letter  from  Pauline 
which  he  took  away  with  him  to  read  in  the  garden  of 
St.  John's,  leaving  Michael  to  Magna  Charta. 

There  was  nobody  on  the  lawn,  and  Guy  sat  down  on 
a  wooden  seat  in  air  that  was  faintly  perfumed  by  the 
precocious  blooms  of  a  lilac  breaking  to  this  unusual 
warmth  of  April.  Unopened  the  letter  rested  in  his  hand; 
for  his  name  written  in  this  girlish  charactery  took  on 
the  romantic  look  of  a  name  in  an  old  tale.  A  breathless- 
ness  was  in  the  air,  such  as  had  brooded  upon  Pauline's 
first  kiss;  and  Guy  sat  marmoreal  and  rapt  in  an  ecstasy 
of  anticipation  that  he  would  never  have  from  any  other 
letter;  so  still  he  was  that  an  alighting  blackbird  slipped 
over  the  grass  almost  to  his  feet  before  it  realized  the 
mistake  and  shrilled  away  on  startled  wings  into  the 
bushes  behind.  The  trance  of  expectation  was  spoiled, 
and  Guy  with  a  sigh  broke  the  envelope. 

WYCHFORD  RECTORY,  OXON, 

Wednesday. 

I  am  writing  to  you  at  my  desk.  I  began  this  morning  hut 
it  was  time  to  go  out  when  I  began.  Now  it's  after  tea.  Mar- 
garet came  in  just  now  and  said  I  looked  all  crinkled  up  like  a 
shell:  it's  because  I  simply  don't  know  how  to  write  to  you. 
I  have  read  your  letter  over  and  over  again.  I  never  thought 

138 


SPRING 

there  could  be  such  a  wonderful  letter  in  the  world.  But  I  feel 
very  sorry  for  poor  Richard  who  can't  write  letters  as  exquisite 
as  yours.  I  really  feel  miserable  about  him.  And  this  letter 
to  you  makes  me  feel  miserable  because  I  can't  write  letters 
even  as  well  as  Richard.  Mother  was  glad  you  thought  of 
going  to  Oxford  because  she  says  we  are  a  great  responsibility 
to  her.  Isn't  she  sweet?  She  really  is,  you  know.  So  I  talked 
to  Father  myself  very  seriously.  I  explained  to  him  that  I 
was  quite  old  enough  to  know  my  own  mind,  and  he  listened 
to  all  the  things  I  told  him  about  you.  He  said  he  supposed  it 
was  innevvitable,  which  looks  very  funny  somehow.  Are  you 
laughing  at  my  spelling?  And  then  he  said  it  was  nothing  to 
do  with  him.  So  of  course  I  rushed  off  to  Mother  and  told  her 
and  when  you  come  back  we  are  to  be  allowed  to  go  out  twice 
a  week  and  in  three  more  months  we  can  be  engaged  properly. 
Are  you  happy?  Only,  dear  Guy,  Mother  doesn't  want  you 
to  come  back  till  my  birthday.  She  thinks  the  idea  of  you  and 
me  will  be  better  when  Father  has  got  an  Iris  lorti  or  some 
name  like  that.  He  has  never  had  a  flower  of  it  before  and 
he's  so  excited  about  it's  coming  out  just  when  my  birthday  is. 
Every  day  he  goes  down  and  pinches  the  stalk  of  it.  He  says 
it's  the  loveliest  flower  in  the  world  and  grows  on  Mount  Leb- 
anon. So  if  it  comes  out  on  my  birthday,  you  and  I  can 
certainly  be  engaged  in  August.  Guy,  I  do  hate  my  handwriting. 

Your  loving 

PAULINE. 

It  was  a  letter  of  gloriously  good  news,  thought  Guy, 
though  he  was  a  little  disappointed  not  to  have  had  the 
thrill  of  Pauline's  endearment.  Then,  on  the  blank  out- 
side page,  he  saw  scrawled  in  writing  that  went  tumbling 
head  over  heels  down  the  paper:  My  darling  Guy,  I  love 
you  and  underneath  I  have  kissed  the  letter  for  you. 

The  sentence  died  out  in  faint  ink  that  seemed  to  show 
forth  the  whisper  in  which  it  had  been  written.  For  Guy 
the  tumble-down  letters  were  written  in  fire;  and  with  the 
treasure  in  his  heart  of  that  small  sentence,  read  a  hundred 
times,  he  did  not  know  how  he  should  endure  ten  long 
days  without  Pauline,  and  in  this  old  college  garden,  on 
this  sedate  and  academic  lawn,  he  cried  out  that  he  adored 

139 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

her  as  if  indeed  she  were  beside  him  in  this  laylocked  air. 
At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  birds  close  at  hand  were  all 
silent;  they  might  have  stopped  to  listen.  Then  a  green 
finch  called,  "Sweet!  sweet!"  whose  gentle  and  persistent 
proclamation  was  presently  echoed  by  all  the  other  birds 
twittering  together  again  in  the  confused  raptures  of  their 
Spring. 

The  days  with  Michael  at  St.  Giles  went  by  slowly 
enough,  and  their  fairness  was  a  wasted  boon.  Guy  wrote 
many  long  letters  to  Pauline  and  received  from  her  an- 
other letter  in  which  she  began  with  "My  dearest,"  as  he 
had  begged  her.  Yet  when  he  read  the  herald  vocative, 
he  wished  he  had  not  tried  to  alter  that  old  abrupt  opening, 
for  never  again  would  she  write  in  the  faint  ink  of  shy- 
ness such  a  sentence  as  had  tumbled  down  the  back  of 
her  first  letter. 

Michael  seemed  to  divine  that  he  was  in  love,  and  Guy 
wondered  why  he  could  not  tell  him  about  it.  Once  or 
twice  he  nearly  brought  himself  to  the  point,  but  the 
thought  of  describing  Pauline  kept  him  mute;  Michael 
must  see  her  first.  The  canoe  would  be  ready  at  the  end 
of  the  week,  and  Guy  announced  he  should  paddle  it  up 
to  Wychford,  traveling  from  the  Isis  to  the  upper  Thames, 
and  from  the  upper  Thames  turning  aside  at  Oldbridge  to 
follow  the  romantic  course  of  the  Greenrush  even  to  his 
own  windows. 

"Rather  fun,"  said  Michael,  "if  the  weather  stays  all 
right." 

"By  Jove!"  Guy  exclaimed,  "I  believe  it  was  at  Old- 
bridge  Inn  that  I  first  met  you." 

"On  May  Day  three  years  ago,"  Michael  agreed. 

And,  thought  Guy,  with  a  compassionate  feeling  for 
mere  friendship,  what  a  much  more  wonderful  May  Day 
should  be  this  when  Pauline  was  twenty.  There  was  now 
her  birthday  present  to  buy,  and  Guy  set  out  on  the  quest 
of  it  with  as  much  exaltation  as  Percival  may  have  sought 
the  Holy  Grail.  He  wished  it  were  a  ring  he  could  buy 

140 


SPRING 

for  her;  and  indeed  ultimately  he  could  not  resist  a 
crystal  set  on  a  thin  gold  circlet  that  she,  his  rose  of  girls, 
would  wear  like  a  dewdrop.  This  ring,  however,  could 
not  be  his  formal  gift,  but  it  would  have  to  be  offered 
when  they  were  alone,  and  it  must  be  worn  nowhere  but 
in  the  secret  country  they  haunted  with  their  love.  The 
ring,  uncostly  as  it  was,  took  nearly  all  Guy's  spare  mon- 
ey, and  he  decided  to  buy  a  book  for  her,  because  in  Ox- 
ford bookshops  he  still  had  accounts  running.  The  April 
afternoon  wore  away  while  in  his  own  particular  bookshop 
kept  by  Mr.  Brough,  an  ancient  man  with  a  white  beard, 
he  took  down  from  the  shelves  volume  after  volume.  At 
last  he  found  a  small  copy  of  Blake's  Lyrics  bound  in 
faded  apple-green  calf  and  tooled  in  a  golden  design  of 
birds,  berries,  and  daisies.  This  must  be  for  Pauline,  he 
decided,  since  some  one  must  have  known  the  pattern 
of  that  nursery  wall-paper  and,  loving  it,  have  wished  it 
to  be  recorded  more  endurably.  What  more  exquisite 
coincidence  could  assure  him  that  this  book  was  meant 
for  Pauline?  Yet  he  was  half  jealous  of  the  unknown 
designer  who  had  thought  of  something  of  which  himself 
might  have  thought.  Oh  yes,  this  must  be  for  Pauline; 
and  as  Guy  rescued  it  from  the  dust  and  darkness  of 
the  old  shop  he  ascribed  to  the  green  volume  an  emotion 
of  relief,  and  was  half  aware  of  promising  to  it  a  new  and 
dearer  owner  who  with  cherishing  would  atone  for  what- 
ever misfortune  had  brought  it  to  these  gloomy  shelves. 

Next  morning,  when  Guy  was  ready  to  start,  Michael 
presented  him  with  a  glazier's  diamond  pencil. 

"When  you  fall  in  love,  Guy,  this  will  serve  to  scribble 
sonnets  to  your  lady  on  the  lattices  of  Plashers  Mead.  I 
shall  probably  come  there  myself  when  term's  over." 

"I  wish  you'd  come  and  live  there  with  me,"  said  Guy 
in  a  last  effort  to  persuade  Michael.  "You  see,  if  you 
shared  the  house  it  wouldn't  cost  so  much." 

"Perhaps  I  will,"  said  Michael.  "Who  knows?  I 
wonder  what  your  Rectory  people  would  think  of  me  ?" 

141 


"Oh,  Pauline  would  like  you.  Pauline's  the  youngest, 
you  know,"  added  Guy.  "And  I'm  pretty  certain  you'd 
like  Monica." 

Michael  laughed. 

"Really,  Guy,  I  must  tell  them  in  Balliol  that  since 
you  went  down  you've  become  an  idle  matchmaker. 
Good-by." 

"Good-by.  You're  sure  you  won't  mind  the  fag  of 
forwarding  my  bicycle?  I'll  send  you  a  post-card  from 
Oldbridge." 

Guy,  although  there  was  still  more  than  a  week  before 
he  would  see  Pauline,  felt,  as  he  hurried  towards  the  boat- 
builder's  moorings,  that  he  would  see  her  within  an  hour, 
such  airy  freedom  did  the  realization  of  being  on  his  way 
give  to  his  limbs. 

The  journey  to  Wychford  seemed  effortless,  for  what- 
ever the  arduousness  of  a  course  steadily  up-stream,  it 
was  nullified  by  the  knowledge  that  every  time  the  paddle 
was  dipped  into  the  water  it  brought  him  by  his  own 
action  nearer  to  Pauline.  A  railway  journey  would  have 
given  him  none  of  this  endless  anticipation,  traveling 
through  what  at  this  time  of  the  year,  before  the  season 
of  boating,  was  a  delicious  solitude.  Guy  could  sing  all 
the  way  if  he  wished,  for  there  was  nothing  but  butter- 
cups and  daisies,  lambs  and  meadows  and  greening  willows, 
to  overlook  his  progress.  He  glided  beneath  ancient 
bridges  and  rested  at  ancient  inns,  nearer  every  night  to 
Pauline.  Scarcely  had  such  days  a  perceptible  flight,  and 
were  not  May  Morning  marked  in  flame  on  his  mind's 
calendar,  he  could  have  forgotten  time  in  this  slow,  un- 
dated diminution. 

"O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
Oh,  stay  and  hear;    your  true  love's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low: 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting, 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know/* 
142 


SPRING 

This  was  the  song  Guy  flung  before  his  prow  to  the 
vision  of  Pauline  leading  him. 

"What  is  love?    'tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure." 

This  was  the  song  that  Guy  felt  Shakespeare  might 
have  written  to  suit  his  journey  now,  as  he  paddled  higher 
and  higher  up  the  stream  that  flowed  towards  Shake- 
speare's own  country. 

The  banks  of  the  Greenrush  were  narrower  than  the 
banks  of  the  Thames;  and  all  the  way  they  were  becom- 
ing narrower,  and  all  the  way  the  stream  was  running 
more  swiftly  against  him.  It  was  Sunday  evening  when 
he  reached  Plashers  Mead;  and  so  massively  welded  was 
the  sago  on  his  Sheraton  table  that  Guy  wondered  if 
Miss  Peasey,  to  be  ready  for  his  arrival,  had  not  cooked 
it  a  week  ago.  But  what  did  sago  matter  when  in  his 
place  there  was  laid  a  note  from  Pauline? 

MY  DEAREST, — I've  had  all  your  letters  and  I've  been  very 
frightened  you'd  be  drowned.  To-morrow  you've  got  to  come 
to  breakfast  because  I  always  have  breakfast  in  the  garden 
on  my  birthday  unless  it  pours.  I'm  going  to  church  at  eight. 
I  love  you  a  thousand  times  more  and  I  will  tell  you  so  to- 
morrow and  give  you  twenty  kisses. 

Your  own 

PAULINE. 

Do  you  like  "your  own"  better  than  "your  loving"? 

Guy  went  to  bed  very  early  and  resolved  to  wake  at 
dawn  that  he  might  have  the  hours  of  the  morning  for 
thoughts  of  Pauline  on  her  birthday. 

It  was  after  dawn  when  Guy  woke,  for  he  had  fallen 
asleep  very  tired  after  his  week  on  the  river;  still  it  was 

141 


PLASHJERS    MEAD 

scarcely  six  when  he  came  down  into  the  orchard,  and  the 
birds  were  singing  as  Guy  thought  he  had  never  heard 
them  sing  before.  The  apple-trees  were  already  frilled 
with  a  foam  of  blossom;  and  on  quivering  boughs  linnets 
with  breasts  rose-burnt  by  the  winds  of  March  throbbed 
out  their  carol.  Chaffinches  with  flashing  prelude  of 
silver  wings  flourished  a  burst  of  song  that  broke  as  with 
too  intolerable  a  triumph,  then  sought  another  tree  and 
poured  forth  the  triumphant  song  again.  Thrushes, 
blackbirds,  and  warblers  quired  deep-throated  melodies 
against  the  multitudinous  trebles  of  those  undistinguished 
myriads  that  with  choric  paean  saluted  May;  and  on  sud- 
den diminuendoes  could  be  heard  the  rustling  canzonets 
of  the  goldfinches,  rising  and  falling  with  reedy  cadences. 
Guy  launched  his  canoe,  which  crushed  the  dewy 
young  grass  in  its  track  and  laded  the  morning  with  one 
more  fragrance.  He  paddled  down  the  mill-stream  and, 
landing  presently  in  the  Rectory  paddock,  now  in  full 
blow  with  white  and  purple  irises,  he  went  through  the 
wicket  into  the  garden.  When  he  reached  the  lily-pond 
the  birds  on  the  lawn  flew  away  and  left  it  green  and 
empty.  He  stood  entranced,  for  the  hush  of  the  morning 
lay  on  the  house,  and  in  the  wistaria  Pauline's  window 
dreamed,  wide  open.  Deep  in  the  shrubberies  the  birds 
still  twittered  incessantly.  Why  was  he  not  one  of  these 
birds,  that  he  might  light  upon  her  sill?  Upon  Guy's 
senses  stole  the  imagination  of  a  new  fragrance,  that  was 
being  shed  upon  the  day  by  that  wide-open  window;  a 
fragrance  that  might  be  of  flowers  growing  by  the  walks 
of  her  dreams.  And  surely  in  those  flowery  dreams  he 
was  beside  her,  since  he  had  lost  all  sense  of  being  still 
on  earth.  A  bee  flew  out  from  Pauline's  room,  an  en- 
viable bee  which  had  been  booming  with  indefinite  motion 
for  how  long  round  and  round  the  white  tulips  on  her 
sill.  Presently  another  bee  flew  in;  and  Guy's  fancy, 
catching  hold  of  its  wings,  hovered  above  Pauline  where 
she  lay  sleeping.  So  sharp  was  the  emotion  he  had  of 

144 


SPRING 

entering  with  the  bee,  that  he  was  aware  of  brushing  back 
her  light-brown  hair  to  lean  down  and  kiss  her  forehead; 
and  when  the  belfry  clock  clanged  he  was  startled  to  find 
himself  back  upon  this  green  and  empty  lawn.  He  must 
not  stay  here  in  front  of  her  window,  because  if  she  woke 
and  came  in  her  white  nightgown  to  greet  the  day  she 
would  be  shy  to  see  him  standing  here.  Reluctantly  Guy 
turned  away  and  would  have  gone  out  again  by  the 
wicket  in  the  wall  if  he  had  not  come  face  to  face  with 
Birdwood. 

"I  think  I'm  a  bit  early,"  he  said  in  some  embarrass- 
ment. 

"Yes,  I  think  you  are  a  bit  early,  sir,"  the  gardener 
agreed. 

"Breakfast  won't  be  till  about  half  oast  eight?"  Guy 
suggested. 

"And  it's  just  gone  the  half  of  six,"  said  Birdwood. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  my  canoe?"  Guy  asked. 

Birdwood  looked  round  the  lawn,  seeming  to  imply 
that,  such  was  Guy's  liberty  of  behavior,  he  half  expected 
to  see  it  floating  on  the  lily-pond. 

"Where  is  it,  then?"  he  asked. 

Guy  took  him  through  the  paddock  to  where  the  canoe 
lay  on  the  mill-stream. 

"Handy  little  weapon,"  Birdwood  commented. 

"Well,  I'll  see  you  later,  I  expect,"  said  Guy,  embark- 
ing again.  "I'm  coming  to  breakfast  at  the  Rectory." 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  gardener  answered,  cheerfully.  "In 
about  another  hour  and  a  half  I  shall  be  looking  for  the 
eggs." 

Guy  waved  his  hand  and  shot  out  into  midstream,  where 
he  drifted  idly.  Should  he  go  to  church  this  morning? 
Pauline  must  have  wanted  him  to  come,  or  she  would  not 
have  told  him  in  her  note  that  she  was  going.  They  had 
never  discussed  the  question  of  religion.  Tacitly  he  had 
let  it  be  supposed  he  believed  in  her  simple  creed,  and  he 
knew  his  appearance  of  faith  had  given  pleasure  to  the 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

family  as  well  as  to  Pauline  herself.  Was  he  being  very 
honest  with  her  or  with  them?  Certainly  when  he  knelt 
at  the  back  of  the  church  and  saw  Pauline  as  he  had  seen 
her  on  Easter  Day,  it  was  not  hard  to  believe  in  divinity. 
But  he  did  not  carry  away  Pauline's  faith  to  cheer  his 
own  secret  hours.  The  thought  of  herself  was  always 
with  him,  but  her  faith  remained  as  a  kind  of  vision  upon 
which  he  was  privileged  to  gaze  on  those  occasions  when, 
as  it  were,  she  made  of  it  a  public  confession.  Had  he 
really  any  right  to  intrude  upon  such  sanctities  as  hers 
would  be  to-day?  No  doubt  every  birthday  morning 
she  went  to  church,  and  the  strangeness  of  his  presence 
seemed  almost  an  unhallowing  of  such  rites.  Even  to 
attend  her  birthday  breakfast  began  to  appear  unjustifi- 
able, as  he  thought  of  all  the  birthday  breakfasts  that  for 
so  many  years  had  passed  by  without  him  and  without  any 
idea  of  there  ever  being  any  necessity  for  him.  No  doubt 
this  morning  he,  miserable  and  unworthy  skeptic,  would 
be  dowered  with  the  half  of  her  prayers,  and  in  that  con- 
sciousness could  he  bear  to  accept  them,  kneeling  at  the 
back  of  the  church,  unless  he  believed  utterly  they  were 
sanctified  by  something  more  than  her  own  maidenhood  ? 
Yet  if  he  did  not  go  to  church  Pauline  would  be  disap- 
pointed, because  she  would  surely  expect  him.  She  would 
be  like  the  blessed  damozel  leaning  out  from  the  gold  bar 
of  Heaven  and  weeping  because  he  did  not  come.  There 
was  no  gain  from  honesty,  if  she  were  made  miserable 
by  it.  It  were  better  a  thousand  times  he  should  kneel 
humbly  at  the  back- of  the  church  and  pray  for  the  faith 
that  was  hers.  And  why  could  he  not  believe  as  she  be- 
lieved? If  her  faith  were  true,  he  suffered  from  injustice 
by  having  no  grace  accorded  to  him.  Or  did  there  indeed 
lie  between  him  and  her  the  impassable  golden  bar  of 
Heaven?  A  cloud  swept  across  the  morning  sun,  and 
Guy  shivered.  Then  the  church-bell  began  to  clang 
and,  urging  his  canoe  towards  the  churchyard,  he  jumped 
ashore  and  knelt  at  the  back  of  the  church, 

146 


SPRING 

Guy  had  been  aware  during  the  service  of  the  saintly 
pageant  along  the  windows  of  the  clerestory  slowly  dim- 
ming, and  he  was  not  surprised,  when  he  came  out,  to 
see  that  clouds  were  dusking  the  first  brilliance  of  the  day. 
Mrs.  Grey,  Monica,  and  Margaret  had  prayed  each  in  a 
different  part  of  the  church;  but  now  in  the  porch  they 
fluttered  about  Pauline  with  an  intimate  and  happy 
awareness  of  her  birthday,  almost  seeming  to  wrap  her 
in  it,  so  that  she  in  flushed  responsiveness  wore  all  her 
twenty  years  like  a  bunch  of  roses.  Guy  was  sensitive 
to  the  faint  reluctance  with  which  her  mother  and  sisters 
resigned  her  to  him  on  this  birthday  morning;  but  yet 
to  follow  them  back  from  church  with  Pauline  beside 
him  in  a  trepidation  of  blushes  and  sparkles  was  too  dear 
a  joy  for  him  in  turn  to  resign.  Half-way  to  the  house 
Pauline  remembered  that  her  father  had  been  left  alone. 
This  was  too  wide  a  breach  in  her  birthday's  accustomed 
ceremony,  and,  much  dismayed,  she  begged  Guy  to  go 
back  with  her.  At  that  moment  the  rest  of  the  family 
had  disappeared  round  a  curve  in  the  walk,  and  Guy 
caught  Pauline  to  him,  complaining  she  had  not  kissed 
him  since  he  was  home. 

"Oh,  but  Father!"  she  said,  breathlessly,  tugging. 
"He'll  be  so  hurt  if  we've  gone  on  without  him." 

Guy  felt  a  stab  of  jealousy  that  even  a  father  should 
intrude  upon  his  birthday  kiss  for  her. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  said,  half  coldly.  "If  to  see  me 
again  after  a  fortnight  means  so  little  .  .  .'* 

"Guy,"  said  Pauline,  "you're  not  cross  with  me?  And 
Father  was  so  sweet  about  you.  He  said,  'Is  Guy  coming 
to  breakfast?'  Guy,  you  mustn't  mind  if  I  think  a  lot 
about  everybody  to-day.  You  see,  this  is  my  first  birth- 
day when  there  has  been  you." 

"Oh,  don't  remind  me  of  the  years  before  we  met," 
said  Guy.  "I  hate  them  all.  No,  I  don't,"  he  exclaimed 
in  swift  penitence.  "I  love  them  all.  Hurry,  darling 
girl,  or  we  shall  miss  him." 

H7 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Pauline's  eyes  were  troubled  by  a  question,  behind 
which  lurked  a  fleeting  alarm. 

"Kiss  me,"  she  murmured.     "I  was  horrid." 

A  kind  of  austerity  informed  their  kiss  of  reconciliation, 
an  austerity  that  suited  the  sky  of  impending  rain  under 
which  they  were  standing  in  the  light  of  the  last  wan 
sunbeam.  Then  they  hurried  to  the  churchyard,  where 
in  the  porch  the  Rector  was  looking  vaguely  round  for 
company  he  expected. 

"  Lucky  my  friend  Lorteti  came  out  yesterday.  This 
rain  will  ruin  him.  You  must  take  Guy  to  see  that  iris, 
my  dear.  Fancy!  twenty-one  to-day!  Dear  me!  dear  me! 
Most  remarkable!" 

Pauline  danced  with  delight  behind  the  Rector's  back. 

"He  thinks  I'm  twenty-one,"  she  whispered.  "Oh, 
Guy,  isn't  he  sweet?  And  he  called  you  Guy.  Oh, 
Francis,"  she  cried,  "do  let  me  kiss  you!" 

There  was  a  short  debate  on  the  probability  of  the  rain's 
coming  before  breakfast  was  done,  but  it  was  decided, 
thanks  to  Birdwood's  optimism,  to  accept  the  risk  of  inter- 
ruption by  sitting  down  outside.  The  table  was  on  the 
lawn,  Pauline's  presents  lying  in  a  heap  at  the  head.  As 
one  by  one  she  opened  the  packets,  everybody  stood  round 
her,  not  merely  her  mother  and  father  and  sisters  and 
Guy,  but  also  Birdwood  and  elderly  Janet  and  Mrs. 
Unger-the  cook  and  Polly  who  helped  Mrs.  Unger. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  excited!"  said  Pauline.  "Oh,  I  do  hope 
it  won't  rain!  Oh,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Unger!  What  a 
beautiful  frame!" 

"I  hope  yaw'll  find  some  one  to  put  in  it,  miss,"  said 
Mrs.  Unger  with  a  glance  of  stately  admiration  towards 
her  present  and  a  triumphant  side  look  at  Janet,  who 
after  many  years'  superintendence  of  Pauline's  white 
fastness  had  brought  her  bunches  of  lavender  and  wood- 
ruff tied  up  with  ribbons.  All  the  presents  were  now  un- 
done, among  them  Guy's  green  volume,  a  paste  buckle 
from  Margaret,  a  piece  of  old  embroidery  from  Monica,  and 

148 


SPRING 

from  Richard  in  India  a  pair  of  carved  bellows,  at  the 
prodigal  ingenuity  of  whose  pattern  Margaret  looked  a 
little  peevish.  When  all  the  other  presents  had  been 
examined,  Birdwood  stepped  forward  and  with  the  air 
of  a  conjuror  produced  from  under  his  coat  a  pot  of  rose- 
colored  sweet-peas  that  exactly  matched  the  frail  hue  of 
Pauline's  cheeks. 

Breakfast  was  eaten,  with  everybody's  eyes  watching 
the  now  completely  gray  sky.  How  many  such  birthday 
breakfasts  had  been  eaten  on  this  cool  lawn  by  these 
people,  who  in  their  simplicity  were  akin  to  the  birds  in 
their  shrubberies  and  the  flowers  in  their  borders;  and 
Guy  thought  of  an  old  photograph  taken  by  an  uncle  of 
Pauline's  tenth  birthday  breakfast,  when  the  table  was 
heaped  high  with  dolls  and  toys  and  Pauline  in  the  middle 
of  them,  while  Monica  and  Margaret,  with  legs  as  thin 
as  thrushes',  stood  shy  and  graceful  in  the  background. 
He  sighed  to  himself  with  amazement  at  the  fortune 
which  like  a  genie  had  whisked  him  into  this  dear  assem- 
blage. 

Breakfast  was  over  just  as  the  rain  began  to  fall  with 
the  tinkling  whisper  that  forebodes  determination.  There 
was  not  a  leaf  in  the  garden  that  was  not  ringing  like  an 
elfin  bell  to  these  silver  drops;  but,  alas!  the  unrelenting 
windless  rain  gave  no  hope  to  Guy  and  Pauline  of  that 
long  walk  together  they  had  expected  all  a  fortnight. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  sit  in  the  nursery  and  won- 
der if  it  would  ever  stop. 

"I  used  to  love  rain  when  it  kept  me  here,"  said  Guy. 
"Now  it  has  become  our  enemy." 

Worse  was  to  come,  for  it  rained  every  day  faster  and 
faster,  and  there  were  no  journeys  for  Guy's  new  canoe. 
He  and  Pauline  scarcely  had  ten  minutes  to  themselves, 
since  when  they  were  kept  in  the  house  all  the  family 
treated  them  with  that  old  proprietary  manner.  The 
unending  rain  began  to  fret  them  more  sharply  because 
Spring's  greenery  was  in  such  weather  of  the  vividest  hue 

149 


FLASHERS   MEAD 

and  was  reproaching  them  perpetually  for  the  waste  of 
this  lovely  month  of  May. 

The  river  was  rising.  Already  Guy's  garden  was 
sheened  with  standing  moisture,  and  the  apple-blossoms 
lay  ruined.  People  vowed  there  had  never  been  such 
rain  in  May,  and  still  it  rained.  The  river  was  running 
swiftly,  level  with  the  top  of  its  banks,  and  many  of  the 
meadows  were  become  glassy  firmaments.  Very  beautiful 
was  this  green  and  silver  landscape,  but,  oh,  the  rain  was 
endless.  Guy  grew  much  depressed  and  Miss  Peasey  got 
rheumatism  in  her  ankles.  Then  in  the  middle  of  the 
month,  when  Guy  was  feeling  desperate  and  when  even 
Pauline  seemed  sad  for  the  hours  that  were  being  robbed 
from  them,  it  cleared  up. 

Guy  had  been  to  tea,  and  after  tea  he  and  Pauline  had 
sat  watching  the  weather.  Margaret  had  stayed  with 
them  all  the  afternoon,  but  had  left  them  alone  now,  when 
it  was  half  past  six  and  nearly  time  for  Guy  to  go.  The 
clouds,  which  all  day  had  spread  their  pearly  despair 
over  the  world,  suddenly  melted  in  a  wild  transplendency 
of  gold. 

"Oh,  do  let's  go  for  a  walk  before  dinner,"  said  Guy. 
"Don't  let's  tell  anybody,  but  let's  escape." 

"Where  shall  we  go?" 

"Anywhere.  Anywhere.  Out  in  the  meadows  by  the 
edge  of  the  water.  Let's  get  sopping  wet.  Dearest,  do 
come.  We're  never  free.  We're  never  alone." 

So  Pauline  got  ready;  and  they  slipped  away  from  the 
house,  hoping  that  nobody  would  call  them  back,  and 
hurrying  through  the  wicket  into  the  paddock  where  the 
irises  hung  all  sodden.  They  walked  along  the  banks  of 
a  river  twice  as  wide  as  it  should  be,  and  found  they  could 
not  cross  the  bridge.  But  it  did  not  matter,  for  the  field 
where  they  were  walking  was  not  flooded,  and  they  went 
on  towards  the  mill.  Here  they  crossed  the  river  and, 
hurrying  always  as  if  they  were  pursued,  such  was  their 
sense  of  a  sudden  freedom  that  could  not  last,  they  made 


SPRING 

a  circuit  of  the  wettest  meadows  and  came  to  the  hill  on 
the  other  side.  Everywhere  above  them  the  clouds  were 
breaking,  and  all  the  west  was  a  fiery  mist  of  rose  and 
gold. 

The  meadow  they  had  found  was  crimsoned  over  with 
ragged-robins  that  in  this  strange  light  glowered  angrily 
like  rubies.  Pauline  bent  down  and  gathered  bunches  of 
them  until  her  arms  were  full.  Her  skirt  was  wet,  but 
still  she  plucked  the  crimson  flowers;  and  Guy  was 
gathering  them  too,  knee-deep  in  soaking  grass.  What 
fever  was  in  the  sunset  to-night? 

"Pauline,"  he  cried,  flinging  high  his  bunch  of  ragged- 
robins  to  scatter  upon  the  incarnadined  air,  "I  have  never 
loved  you  as  I  love  you  now." 

Guy  caught  her  to  him;  and  into  that  kiss  the  fiery 
sky  entered,  so  that  Pauline  let  fall  her  ragged-robins  and 
they  lay  limp  in  the  grass  and  were  trodden  under  foot. 

"Pauline,  I  have  a  ring  for  you,"  he  whispered.  "Will 
you  wear  it  when  we  are  alone  ?" 

She  took  the  thin  circlet  set  with  a  crystal  and  put  it 
on  her  finger.  Then  with  passionate  arms  she  held  him 
to  her  heart;  the  caress  burned  his  lips  like  a  flaming 
torch;  the  crystal  flashed  with  hectic  gleams,  a  basilisk, 
a  perilous  orient  gem. 

"We  must  go  home,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  Guy,  I  feel 
frightened  of  this  evening." 

"Pauline,  my  burning  rose,"  he  whispered. 

And  all  the  way  back  into  the  crimson  sunset  they 
talked  still  in  whispers,  and  of  those  rain-drenched  ragged- 
robins  there  was  not  one  they  carried  home. 

La  belle  Dame  sans  mercy  hath  thee  in  thrall! 
La  belle  Dame  sans  mercy  hath  thee  in  thrall! 
La  belle  Dame  sans  mercy  hath  thee  in  thrall! 

The  words  did  not  cool  Guy's  pillow  that  night,  but 
they  led  him  by  strange  ways  into  a  fevered  sleep. 


SUMMER 


JUNE 

WHEN  Pauline  reached  the  Rectory  dinner  had  al- 
ready begun  in  the  mixture  of  candle-light  and  rosy 
dusk  that  seemed  there  more  than  anything  to  mark 
Summer's  instant  approach,  and  as  with  flushed  cheeks 
she  took  her  place  at  table  she  was  conscious  of  an  atmos- 
phere that  was  half  disapproval,  half  anxiety;  or  was  it 
that  she,  disapproving  of  herself,  expected  criticism? 
Positively  there  was  an  emotion  of  being  on  her  defense; 
she  felt  propitiatory  and  apologetic;  and  for  the  first 
time  she  was  sharply  aware  of  herself  and  her  family  as 
two  distinct  facts.  It  was  to  dispel  this  uneasy  sense  of 
potential  division  that  she  took  up  her  violin  with  a  faintly 
exaggerated  willingness,  and  that,  instead  of  dreaming  of 
Guy  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  she  played  all  the  evening 
in  the  same  spirit  of  wanting  to  please. 

Her  mother  asked  if  she  had  enjoyed  her  walk,  and 
Pauline  had  positively  to  fight  with  herself  before  she 
could  answer  lightly  enough  that  the  walk  had  been  per- 
fect. Why  was  her  heart  beating  like  this,  and  why  did 
her  sisters  regard  her  so  gravely?  It  must  be  her  fancy, 
and  almost  defiantly  she  continued: 

"There  was  no  harm  in  my  going  out  with  Guy,  was 
there?  We've  not  been  together  at  all  lately." 

"Why  should  there  be  any  particular  harm  this  eve- 
ning?" Monica  inquired. 

"Of  course  not,  Monica,"  and  again  her  heart  was 
beating  furiously.  "I  only  asked  because  I  thought  you  all 
seemed  angry  with  me  for  being  a  little  late  for  dinner." 

155 


FLASHERS    MEAD     . 

"I  don't  know  why  we  should  suddenly  be  sensitive 
about  punctuality  in  this  house,"  said  Margaret. 

Pauline  had  never  thought  her  own  white  fastness 
offered  such  relief  and  shelter  as  to-night;  and  yet,  she 
assured  herself,  nobody  had  really  been  criticizing  her.  It 
must  have  been  entirely  her  fancy,  that  air  of  reproach, 
those  insinuations  of  cold  surprise.  People  in  this  house 
did  not  understand  what  it  meant  to  be  as  much  in  love 
as  she.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Margaret  and  Monica  to 
lay  down  laws  for  behavior,  Margaret  who  did  not  know 
whether  she  loved  or  not,  Monica  who  disapproved  of 
anything  more  directly  emotional  than  a  Gregorian  chant. 
Yet  they  had  not  theorized  to-night,  nor  had  they  pro- 
pounded one  rule  of  behavior;  it  was  she  who  was  rush- 
ing to  meet  their  postulates  and  observations,  arming 
herself  with  weapons  of  offense  before  the  attack  had  be- 
gun. Yet  why  had  neither  Monica  nor  Margaret,  nor 
even  her  mother,  come  to  say  good  night  to  her?  They 
did  not  understand  about  love,  not  one  of  them,  not  one 
of  them. 

"Pauline?" 

It  was  her  mother's  voice  outside  her  door,  who,  coming 
in,  seemed  perfectly  herself. 

"Not  undressed  yet?  What's  the  matter,  darling 
Pauline?  You  look  quite  worried,  sitting  there  in  your 
chair." 

"I'm  not  worried,  Mother.  Really,  darling,  I'm  not 
worried.  I  thought  you  were  cross  with  me." 

Now  she  was  crying  and  being  petted. 

"I  don't  know  why  I'm  crying.  Oh,  I'm  so  foolish! 
Why  am  I  crying?  Are  you  cross  with  me?" 

" Pauline,  what  is  the  matter?  Have  you  had  a  quarrel 
with  Guy?" 

"Good  gracious,  no!  What  makes  you  ask  that?  We 
had  an  exquisite  walk,  and  the  sunset  was  wonderful,  oh, 
so  wonderful!  And  we  picked  ragged-robins  —  great 
bunches  of  them.  Only  I  forgot  to  bring  them  home. 

156 


SUMMER 

How  stupid  of  me!  Monica  and  Margaret  aren't  angry 
with  me,  are  they?  They  were  so  cold  at  dinner.  Why 
were  they?  Mother,  I  do  love  you  so.  You  do  under- 
stand me,  don't  you?  You  do  sympathize  with  love? 
Mother,  I  do  love  you  so." 

When  Pauline  was  in  bed  her  mother  fetched  Mar- 
garet and  Monica,  who  both  came  and  kissed  her  good 
night  and  asked  what  could  have  given  her  the  idea 
that  they  were  angry  with  her. 

"You  foolish  little  thing,  go  to  sleep,"  said  Monica. 

"You  mustn't  let  your  being  in  love  with  Guy  spoil  the 
Rectory,"  said  Margaret.  "Because,  you  know,  the 
Rectory  is  so  much,  much  better  than  anything  else  in 
the  world." 

Her  mother  and  sisters  left  her,  going  gently  from  the 
room  as  if  she  were  already  asleep. 

Pauline  read  for  a  while  from  Guy's  green  volume  of 
Blake;  then  taking  from  under  her  pillow  the  crystal 
ring,  she  put  it  on  her  third  finger  and  blew  out  the 
light. 

Was  he  thinking  of  her  at  this  moment  ?  He  must  be, 
and  how  near  they  brought  him  to  her,  these  nights  of 
thoughts,  for  then  she  seemed  to  be  floating  out  of  her 
window  to  meet  him  half-way  upon  the  May  air.  How 
she  loved  him;  and  he  had  given  her  this  ring  of  which 
no  one  knew  except  themselves.  It  was  strange  to  have 
been  suddenly  frightened  in  that  sunset,  for  now,  as  she 
lay  here  looking  back  upon  it,  this  evening  was  surely 
the  most  wonderful  of  her  life.  He  had  called  her  his 
burning  rose.  His  burning  rose  ...  his  burning  rose? 
Why  had  she  not  brought  back  a  few  of  those  ragged- 
robins  to  sit  like  confidantes  beside  her  bed?  Flowers 
were  such  companions;  the  beautiful  and  silent  flowers. 
How  far  away  sleep  was  still  standing  from  her;  and 
Pauline  got  out  of  bed  and  leaned  from  the  window  with 
a  sensation  of  resting  upon  the  buoyant  darkness.  The 
young  May  moon  had  already  set,  and  not  a  sound  could 

157 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

be  heard;  so  still,  indeed,  was  the  night  that  it  seemed 
as  if  the  stars  ought  to  be  audible  upon  their  twinkling. 
If  now  a  nightingale  would  but  sing  to  say  what  she  was 
wanting  to  say  to  the  darkness!  Nightingales,  however, 
were  rare  in  the  trees  round  Wychford,  and  the  garden 
stayed  silent.  Perhaps  Guy  was  leaning  from  his  window 
like  this,  and  it  was  a  pity  their  lights  could  not  shine 
across,  each  candle  fluttering  to  the  other.  If  only 
Flashers  Mead  were  within  view,  they  would  be  able  to 
sit  at  their  windows  in  the  dark  hours  and  sometimes 
signal  to  each  other.  Or  would  that  be  what  Margaret 
called  "cheapening"  herself?  Had  she  cheapened  herself 
this  evening  when  she  had  kissed  him  for  the  gift  of  this 
ring?  Yet  could  she  cheapen  herself  to  Guy?  He  loved 
her  as  much  as  she  loved  him;  and  always  she  and  he 
must  be  equal  in  their  love.  She  could  never  be  very 
much  reserved  with  Guy;  she  did  not  want  to  be.  She 
loved  him,  and  this  evening  for  the  first  time  she  had 
kissed  him  in  the  way  that  often  in  solitude  she  had  longed 
to  kiss  him. 

"  I  only  want  to  live  for  love,"  she  whispered. 

Naturally  Margaret  did  not  know  what  love  like  hers 
meant;  and  perhaps  it  was  as  well,  for  it  was  sad  enough 
to  be  parted  from  Guy  for  two  days,  when  there  was 
always  the  chance  of  seeing  him  in  the  hours  between; 
but  to  be  separated  from  him  by  oceans  for  two  years,  as 
Richard  and  Margaret  were  separated,  that  would  be 
unbearable. 

"I  suppose  Margaret  would  call  it  'cheapening*  my- 
self to  be  standing  at  my  window  like  this.  Good  night, 
dearest  Guy,  good  night.  Your  Pauline  is  thinking  of  you 
to  the  very  last  moment  of  being  the  smallest  bit  awake." 

Her  voice  set  out  to  Plashers  Mead,  no  louder  than  a 
moth's  wing;  and,  turning  away  from  the  warm  May 
night,  Pauline  went  back  to  bed  and  fell  asleep  on  the 
happy  contemplation  of  a  love  that  between  them  was 
exactly  equal. 

158 


SUMMER 

The  floods  went  down  rapidly  during  the  week;  green 
Summer  flung  her  wreaths  before  her;  the  cuckoo  sang 
out  of  tune,  and  other  birds  more  rarely;  chestnut- 
blossoms  powdered  the  grass;  and  the  pinks  were  break- 
ing all  along  the  Rectory  borders.  These  were  days  when 
not  to  idle  down  the  river  would  have  been  a  slight  upon 
the  season.  So  Pauline  and  Guy,  with  their  two  after- 
noons a  week,  which  were  not  long  in  becoming  four, 
spent  all  their  time  in  the  canoe.  The  Rectory  punt 
could  only  be  used  on  the  mill-stream;  and  Pauline  re- 
joiced, if  somewhat  guiltily,  that  they  could  not  invite 
either  of  her  sisters  to  accompany  them.  She  and  Guy 
had  now  so  much  to  say  to  each  other,  every  day  more,  it 
seemed,  that  it  was  impossible  any  longer  not  to  wish 
to  be  alone. 

"Margaret  says  we  are  becoming  selfish.  Are  we?"  she 
asked,  dragging  her  fingers  through  the  water  and  per- 
ceiving the  world  through  ranks  of  fleurs-de-lys. 

Guy,  from  where  in  the  stern  he  sat  hunched  over  his 
paddle,  asked  in  what  way  they  were  supposed  to  be  selfish. 

"Well,  it  is  true  that  I'm  dreadfully  absent-minded  all 
the  time.  You  know,  I  can't  think  about  anything  but 
you.  Then,  you  see,  we  used  always  to  invite  Margaret 
to  be  with  us,  and  now  we  hurry  away  in  the  canoe  from 
everybody." 

"One  would  think  we  spent  all  our  time  together,"  said 
Guy,  "instead  of  barely  four  hours  a  week." 

"Oh,  Guy  darling,  it's  more  than  that.  This  is  the 
fourth  afternoon  running  that  we've  been  together;  and 
we  weren't  back  yesterday  till  dinner-time." 

Guy  put  a  finger  to  his  mouth. 

"Hush!  We're  coming  to  the  bend  in  the  river  that 
flows  round  the  place  we  first  met,"  he  whispered.  "Hush! 
if  we  talk  about  other  people  it  will  be  disenchanted." 

He  swung  the  canoe  under  the  bushes,  tied  it  to  a  haw- 
thorn bough,  and  declared  triumphantly,  as  they  climbed 
ashore  up  the  steep  bank,  that  here  was  practically  a, 

'59 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

desert  island.  Then  they  went  to  the  narrow  entrance 
and  gazed  over  the  meadows,  which  in  this  sacred  time  of 
growing  grass  really  were  impassable  as  the  sea. 

"Not  even  a  cow  in  sight,"  Guy  commented  in  well- 
satisfied  tones.  "I  shall  be  sorry  when  the  hay  is  cut, 
and  people  and  cattle  can  come  here  again." 

"People  and  cattle!  How  naughty  you  are,  Guy!  As 
if  they  were  just  the  same!" 

"Well,  practically,  you  know,  as  far  as  we're  concerned, 
there  isn't  very  much  difference." 

For  a  long  while  they  sat  by  the  edge  of  the  stream  in 
their  fragrant  seclusion. 

"Dearest,"  Pauline  sighed,  "why  can  I  listen  to  you 
all  day,  and  yet  whenever  anybody  else  talks  to  me  why 
do  I  feel  as  if  I  were  only  half  awake  ?" 

"Because  even  when  you're  not  with  me,"  said  Guy, 
"you're  still  really  with  me.  That's  why.  You  see, 
you're  still  listening  to  me." 

This  was  a  pleasant  explanation;  but  Pauline  was 
anxious  to  be  reassured  about  what  Margaret  had  hinted 
was  a  deterioration  in  her  character  lately. 

"Perhaps  we  are  a  little  selfish.  But  we  won't  be, 
when  we're  married." 

Guy  had  been  scribbling  on  an  envelope  which  he  now 
handed  to  her;  and  she  read: 

Mrs.  Guy  Hazlewood 
Plashers  Mead 
Wychford 
Oxon. 

"Oh,  Guy,  you  know  I  love  to  see  it  written;  but  isn't 
it  unlucky  to  write  it?" 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  be  so  superstitious,"  he 
scoffed. 

She  wished  he  were  not  obviously  despising  the  weak- 
ness of  her  beliefs.  This  was  the  mood  in  which  she 
seemed  farthest  away  from  him;  when  she  felt  afraid  of 

160 


SUMMER 

his  cleverness;  and  when  what  had  been  simple  became 
maddeningly  twisted  up  like  an  object  in  a  nightmare. 

Yet  worries  that  were  so  faint  as  scarcely  to  have  a 
definite  shape  could  still  be  bought  off  with  kisses;  and 
always  when  she  kissed  Guy  they  receded  out  of  sight 
again,  temporarily  appeased. 

June,  which  had  come  upon  them  unawares,  drifted  on 
towards  Midsummer,  and  the  indolent  and  lovely  month 
mirrored  herself  in  the  stream  with  lush  growth  of  sedges 
and  grasses,  with  yellow  water-lilies  budding,  with  starry 
crowfoot  and  with  spongy  reeds  and  weeds  that  kept  the 
canoe  to  a  slow  progress  in  accord  with  the  season.  At 
this  time,  mostly,  they  launched  their  craft  in  the  mill- 
stream,  whence  they  glided  under  Wychford  bridge  to  the 
pool  of  an  abandoned  mill  on  the  farther  side.  Here  they 
would  float  immotionable  on  the  black  water,  surrounded 
by  tumble-down  buildings  that  rose  from  the  vivid  and 
exuberant  growth  of  the  thick-leaved  vegetation  flourish- 
ing against  these  cold  and  decayed  foundations.  Pauline 
was  always  relieved  when  Guy  with  soundless  paddle 
steered  the  canoe  away  from  these  deeps.  The  mill-pool 
affected  her  with  the  merely  physical  fear  of  being  over- 
turned and  plunged  into  those  glooms  haunted  by  shad- 
owy fish,  there  far  down  to  be  strangled  by  weeds  the 
upper  tentacles  of  which  could  be  seen  undulating  finely 
to  the  least  quiver  upon  the  face  of  the  water.  Yet  more 
subtly  than  by  physical  terrors  did  these  deeps  affect  her, 
for  the  fathomless  mill-pool  always  seemed,  as  they  hung 
upon  it,  to  ask  a  question.  With  such  an  air  of  horrible 
invitation  it  asked  her  where  she  was  going  with  Guy, 
that  no  amount  of  self-reproach  for  a  morbid  fancy  could 
drive  away  the  fact  of  the  question's  being  always  asked, 
however  firmly  she  might  fortify  herself  against  paying 
attention.  The  moment  they  passed  out  of  reach  of 
that  smooth  and  cruel  countenance,  Pauline  was  always 
ashamed  of  the  terror  and  never  confided  in  Guy  what  a 
mixture  of  emotions  the  mill-pool  could  conjecture  for 

161 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

her.  Their  journey  across  it  was  in  this  sunny  weather 
the  prelude  to  a  cool  time  on  the  stream  that  flowed  along 
the  foot  of  the  Abbey  grounds.  During  May  they  had 
been  wont  to  paddle  directly  up  the  smaller  main  stream, 
exploring  far  along  the  western  valley;  but  on  these  June 
afternoons  such  a  course  involved  too  much  energy.  So 
they  used  to  disembark  from  the  canoe,  pulling  it  over 
a  narrow  strip  of  grass  to  be  launched  again  on  the  Abbey 
stream,  which  had  been  dammed  up  to  flow  with  the 
greater  width  and  solemnity  that  suited  the  grand  house 
shimmering  in  eternal  ghostliness  at  the  top  of  the  dark 
plantation.  Pauline  had  no  dread  of  Wychford  Abbey 
at  this  distance,  and  she  was  fond  of  gliding  down  this 
stream  into  which  the  great  beeches  dipped  their  tresses, 
shading  it  from  the  heat  of  the  sun. 

Every  hour  they  spent  on  the  river  made  them  long  to 
spend  more  hours  together,  and  Pauline  began  to  tell 
herself  she  was  more  deeply  in  love  than  any  one  she  had 
ever  known.  Everything  except  love  was  floating  away 
from  her  like  the  landscape  astern  of  the  canoe.  She 
began  to  neglect  various  people  in  Wychford  over  whom 
she  had  hitherto  watched  with  maternal  solicitude;  even 
Miss  Verney  was  not  often  visited,  because  she  and  Guy 
could  not  go  together,  the  one  original  rule  to  which  Mrs. 
Grey  still  clung  being  a  prohibition  of  walking  together 
through  the  town.  And  with  the  people  went  her  music. 
She  did  not  entirely  give  up  playing,  but  she  always  played 
so  badly  that  Monica  declared  once  she  would  rather  such 
playing  were  given  up.  In  years  gone  by  Pauline  had 
kept  white  fantail  pigeons;  but  now  they  no  longer  in- 
terested her  and  she  gave  them  away  in  pairs.  Birdwood 
declared  that  the  small  bee-garden,  which  from  earliest 
childhood  had  belonged  to  her  guardianship,  was  a  "proper 
disgrace."  Her  tambour-frame  showed  nothing  but  half- 
fledged  birds  from  which  since  Winter  had  hung  unkempt 
shreds  of  blue  and  red  wool.  And  even  her  mother's 
vague  talks  about  the  poor  people  in  Wychford  had  no 


SUMMER 

longer  an  audience,  because  Margaret  and  Monica  never 
had  listened,  and  now  Pauline  was  as  inattentive  as  her 
sisters.  Nothing  was  worth  while  except  to  be  with 
Guy.  Not  one  moment  of  this  June  must  be  wasted,  and 
Pauline  managed  to  set  up  a  precedent  for  going  out  on 
the  river  with  him  after  tea,  when  in  the  cool  afternoon 
they  would  float  down  behind  Guy's  house  under  willows, 
under  hawthorns,  past  the  golden  fleurs-de-lys,  past  the 
scented  flags,  past  the  early  meadowsweet  and  the  flower- 
ing rush,  past  comfrey  and  watermint,  figwort,  forget-me- 
not,  and  blue  crane's-bill  that  shimmered  in  the  sun  like 
steely  mail. 

On  Midsummer  Day  about  five  o'clock  Pauline  and 
Guy  set  out  on  one  of  these  expeditions  that  they  had 
stolen  from  regularity,  and  found  all  their  favorite  fields 
occupied  by  haymakers  whose  labor  they  resented  as  an 
intrusion  upon  the  country  they  had  come  to  regard  as 
their  own. 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  had  money!"  Guy  exclaimed.  "I'd  like 
to  buy  all  this  land  and  keep  it  for  you  and  me.  Why 
must  all  these  wretched  people  come  and  disturb  the 
peace  of  it?" 

"I  used  to  love  haymaking,"  said  Pauline,  feeling  a  lit- 
tle wistful  for  some  of  those  simple  joys  that  now  seemed 
uncapturable  again. 

"Yes.  I  should  like  haymaking,"  Guy  assented,  "if  we 
were  married.  It's  the  fact  that  haymakers  are  at  this 
moment  preventing  us  being  alone  which  makes  me  cry 
out  against  them.  How  can  I  kiss  you  here?" 

A  wain  loaded  high  with  hay  and  laughing  children  was 
actually  standing  close  against  the  ingress  to  their  own 
peninsula.  The  mellow  sun  of  afternoon  was  lending  a 
richer  quality  of  color  to  nut-brown  cheeks  and  arms; 
was  throwing  long  shadows  across  the  shorn  grass;  was 
gilding  the  pitchforks  and  sparkling  the  gnats  that  danced 
above  the  patient  horses.  It  was  a  scene  that  should 
have  made  Pauline  dream  with  joy  of  her  England;  yet, 

163 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

with  Guy's  discontent  brooding  over  it,  she  did  not  care 
for  these  jocund  haymakers  who  were  working  through 
the  lustered  afternoon. 

"Hopeless,"  Guy  protested.  "It's  like  Piccadilly 
Circus." 

"Oh,  Guy  dear,  you  are  absurd.  It's  not  a  bit  like 
Piccadilly  Circus." 

"I  don't  see  the  use  of  living  in  the  country  if  it's  al- 
ways going  to  be  alive  with  people,"  Guy  went  on.  "We 
may  as  well  turn  round.  The  afternoon  is  ruined." 

When  they  reached  the  confines  of  Plashers  Mead  he 
exclaimed  in  deeper  despair: 

"Pauline!  I  must  kiss  you;  and,  look,  actually  the 
churchyard  now  is  crammed  with  people,  all  hovering 
about  over  the  graves  like  ghouls.  Why  does  everybody 
want  to  come  out  this  afternoon?" 

They  landed  in  the  orchard  behind  the  house,  and 
Pauline  was  getting  ready  to  help  Guy  push  the  canoe 
across  to  the  mill-stream,  when  he  vowed  she  must  come 
and  kiss  him  good  night  indoors. 

"Of  course  I  will;  though  I  mustn't  stay  more  than 
a  minute,  because  I  promised  Mother  to  be  back  by 
seven." 

"  I  don't  deserve  you,"  said  Guy,  standing  still  and  look- 
ing down  at  her.  "I've  done  nothing  but  grumble  all 
the  afternoon,  and  you've  been  an  angel.  Ah,  but  it's 
only  because  I  long  to  kiss  you." 

"I  long  to  kiss  you,"  she  murmured. 

"Do  you?  Do  you?"  he  whispered.  "Oh,  with 
those  ghouls  in  the  churchyard  I  can't  even  take  your 
hand." 

They  crossed  the  bridge  from  the  orchard  and  came 
round  to  the  front  of  the  house  into  full  sunlight,  and 
thence  out  of  the  dazzle  into  Guy's  hall  that  was  filled 
with  water  melodies  and  the  green  light  of  their  own 
pastoral  world.  Close  they  kissed,  close  and  closer  in 
the  coolness  and  stillness. 

164 


SUMMER 

"Pauline!     I  shall  go  mad  for  love  of  you." 

"I  love  you.  I  love  you,"  she  sighed,  nestling  to  his 
arms'  inclosure. 

"Pauline!" 

"Guy!" 

Each  called  to  the  other  as  if  over  an  abyss  of  years  and 
time. 

Then  Pauline  said  she  must  go  back,  but  Guy  reminded 
her  of  a  book  she  had  promised  to  read,  and  begged  her 
just  to  come  with  him  to  the  library. 

"  I  do  want  to  talk  to  you  once  alone  in  my  own  room," 
he  said.  "The  evenings  won't  seem  so  empty  when  I 
can  think  of  you  there." 

She  could  not  disappoint  him,  and  they  went  up-stairs 
and  into  his  green  room  that  smelt  of  tobacco  smoke  and 
meadowsweet.  They  stood  by  the  window  looking  out 
over  their  territory,  and  Guy  told  for  the  hundredth 
time  how,  as  it  were,  straight  from  this  window  he  had 
plunged  to  meet  her  that  September  night. 

"Hullo!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly,  reading  on  the  pane 
that  was  scrabbled  with  mottoes  cut  by  himself  in  idle 
moments  with  the  glazier's  pencil: 

The  fresh  green  lap  of  fair  King  Richard's  land. 
Michael  Fane.    June  24. 

"That's  to-day!  Then  Michael  must  be  here.  What 
an  extraordinary  thing!" 

Guy  looked  round  the  room  for  any  sign  of  his  friend; 
but  there  was  nothing  except  the  Shakespearian  record 
of  his  presence.  Pauline  felt  hurt  that  he  should  be  so 
much  interested  in  a  friend  when  but  a  moment  ago  he 
had  brought  her  here  as  if  her  presence  were  the  only 
thing  that  counted  for  his  evening's  pleasure. 

"I  must  find  out  where  he  is,"  exclaimed  Guy. 

Now  he  wanted  to  be  rid  of  her,  thought  Pauline,  and 
for  the  first  time,  when  he  had  kiss,ed  her,  she  kissed  him 
coldly  in  response.  More  bitter  still  was  the  thought  that 

165 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

he  did  not  remonstrate;  he  had  not  noticed.  Pauline 
said  she  must  hurry  away,  and  Guy  did  not  persuade  her 
to  stop.  Oh,  how  she  hated  this  friend  of  his!  She  had 
no  one  in  whom  she  would  be  even  mildly  interested  when 
she  was  with  Guy.  He  took  her  home  in  the  canoe, 
speculating  all  the  way  about  Michael  Fane's  whereabouts; 
and  as  Pauline  went  across  the  Rectory  paddock  there 
were  tears  of  mortification  in  her  eyes  that  sometimes 
burnt  as  hotly  even  as  with  jealousy's  rage. 

Her  mother  was  on  the  lawn  when  she  got  back,  and 
Pauline  blinked  her  eyes  a  good  deal  to  throw  the  blame 
of  tears  upon  the  sun. 

"Ah,  you're  back.  Let's  take  a  little  walk  round  the 
garden,"  said  Mrs.  Grey  in  the  nervous  manner  that  told 
of  something  on  her  mind. 

They  went  into  the  larger  wall-garden  and  walked 
along  the  wide  herbaceous  borders  through  a  blaze  of 
snapdragons  that  here  all  day  had  been  swallowing  the 
sunshine. 

"Where  did  you  go  with  Guy?"  her  mother  asked. 

"We  went  down  the  river,  and  they're  cutting  the  grass 
in  the  big  meadow,  and  then  afterwards  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Pauline,  afterwards  you  went  into  Guy's  house 
with  him?" 

Pauline  nodded.  "I  know.  I  was  just  going  to  tell 
you." 

"Pauline,  how  could  you  do  such  a  thing?" 

"I  only  went  to  say  good  night.  I  wasn't  there  five 
minutes." 

Why  should  an  action  so  simple  be  vexing  her  mother? 

"Are  you  angry  with  me  for  going?" 

"You  must  never  do  such  a  thing  again,'*  said  Mrs. 
Grey,  more  crossly  than  Pauline  had  ever  heard  her. 
"Monica  saw  you  go  in  as  she  was  walking  down  Shipcot 
hill,  and  she  has  just  this  moment  come  and  told  me." 

"But  why  shouldn't  I  go  in  and  say  good  night?" 
Pauline  asked.  "There  were  people  in  the  church- 

166 


SUMMER 

yard.     I   thought  it  was   better  to  say  good  night  in 
the  house." 

Her  mother  was  tremendously  pink  with  vexation,  and 
Pauline  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  It  was  really  unac- 
countable that  such  a  trifling  incident  as  going  into  Guy's 
house  could  have  made  her  as  angry  as  this.  She  must 
have  offended  her  in  some  other  way. 

"Mother,  what  have  I  done  to  annoy  you?'* 

"I  can't  think  what  made  you  do  anything  so  stupid  as 
that.  I  can't  think.  I  can't  think.  So  many  people 
may  have  seen  you  go  in." 

"Well,  Mother  darling,  surely  by  this  time,"  said  Pau- 
line, "everybody  must  know  we  are  really  engaged." 

Her  mother  stood  in  an  access  of  irritation. 

"And  don't  you  understand  how  that  makes  it  all  the 
worse?  Please  never  do  such  an  inconsiderate  thing 
again.  You  can  imagine  how  much  it  upset  Monica, 
when  she  ran  back  to  tell  me." 

"Why  didn't  she  come  in  and  fetch  me?"  asked  Pauline. 
"That  would  have  been  much  easier.  I  think  she  thorough- 
ly enjoyed  making  a  great  fuss  about  nothing.  Every- 
body has  been  criticizing  me  lately.  I  know  you  all  dis- 
approve of  anybody's  being  in  love." 

"Pauline,  when  you  are  to  blame,  you  shouldn't  say 
such  unkind  things  about  Monica." 

"I  have  to  say  what  I  think  sometimes,"  Pauline  re- 
plied, rebelliously. 

"And  as  for  Guy,"  Mrs.  Grey  went  on,  "I  am  as- 
tonished at  his  thoughtlessness.  I  can't  understand  how 
he  could  dream  of  letting  you  come  into  his  house.  I 
can't  understand  it." 

"Yes,  but  why  shouldn't  I  go  in?"  Pauline  persisted. 
"Darling  Mother,  you  go  on  being  angry  with  me,  but 
you  don't  tell  me  why  I  shouldn't  go  in." 

"Can't  you  understand  what  the  Wychford  people 
might  think?" 

Pauline  shook  her  head. 

167 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Well,  I  sha'n't  say  any  more  about  it,"  Mrs.  Grey 
decided.  "  But  you  must  promise  me  never,  never  to  do 
such  a  foolish  thing  again." 

"I'll  promise  you  never  to  go  to  Guy's  house,"  said 
Pauline.  "But  I  can't  promise  never  to  do  foolish 
things  when  such  perfectly  ordinary  things  are  called 
foolish." 

Mrs.  Grey  looked  helplessly  round  her,  but  as  neither 
of  her  two  elder  daughters  was  present  she  had  nothing 
to  say;  and  Pauline,  who  thought  that  all  the  fuss  was 
due  to  nothing  but  Monica's  unwarranted  interference, 
had  nothing  to  say,  either;  so  they  walked  along  the  her- 
baceous borders,  each  with  a  demeanor  of  reproach  for 
the  other's  failure  to  understand.  The  snapdragons  lolled 
upon  the  sun  with  gold-bloomed  anthers,  and  drank  more 
and  still  more  color  until  they  were  drenched  beyond  the 
deepest  dyes  of  crimson,  extinguishing  the  paler  hues  of 
rose  and  chrome  which  yet  at  moth-time  would  show  like 
lamps  when  the  others  had  dulled  in  the  discouragement 
of  twilight. 

"You  mustn't  think  anything  more  about  it,"  said  her 
mother,  after  a  long  pause.  "I'm  sure  it  was  only  heed- 
lessness.  I  don't  think  you  can  say  I'm  too  strict  with 
you  and  Guy.  Really,  you  know,  you  ought  to  have 
had  a  very  happy  June.  You've  been  together  nearly  all 
the  time." 

"Darling,"  said  Pauline,  utterly  penitent  for  the  least 
look  that  could  have  wounded  her  mother's  feelings, 
"you're  sweet  to  us.  And  Guy  loves  you  nearly  as  much 
as  I  do." 

The  gong  sounded  upon  the  luteous  air  of  the  evening; 
and  Pauline,  with  her  arm  closely  tucked  into  her  mother's 
arm,  walked  with  her  across  the  lawn  towards  the  house. 

"It's  no  good  looking  crossly  at  me,"  she  said,  when  like 
a  beautiful  ghost  Monica  came  into  the  dining-room. 
"I've  explained  everything  to  Mother." 

"I'm  very  glad  you  have,"  Monica  answered,  aus- 

168 


SUMMER 

terely;  and  because  she  would  not  fall  in  with  her  own 
forgiving  mood,  Pauline  took  the  gentle  revenge  of  not 
expostulating  with  her  that  evening  when  there  was  an 
opportunity.  Nor  would  she  let  Margaret  refer  to  the 
subject.  Her  sisters  were  very  adorable,  but  they  knew 
nothing  about  love,  and  it  would  only  make  them  more 
anxious  to  lay  down  laws  if  she  showed  that  she  was  aware 
of  their  disapproval.  She  would  be  particularly  charming 
to  them  both  this  evening,  but  her  revenge  must  be  never 
to  mention  the  incident  to  either. 

The  principal  result  of  her  mother's  rebuke  had  been 
to  drive  away  Pauline's  anger  with  Guy  and  the  jealousy 
of  his  friend.  All  she  thought  now  was  of  the  time  when 
next  they  would  meet  and  when  she  would  be  able  to 
laugh  with  him  over  the  absurdity  of  other  people  pre- 
tending to  know  anything  about  the  ways  of  love  or  of 
lovers  like  themselves.  She  decided  also  that,  as  a 
penance  for  having  been  angry  with  Guy,  she  would  take 
care  to  inquire  the  very  first  thing  about  the  mystery 
of  the  inscription  on  the  window.  Oh,  but  how  she  hoped 
that  his  friend  had  not  come  to  stay  at  Plashers  Mead, 
for  that  would  surely  spoil  this  Summer  of  theirs. 

The  next  afternoon,  when  Pauline  went  into  the  pad- 
dock, Guy  was  awaiting  for  her  on  the  mill-stream,  her 
place  in  the  canoe  all  ready  as  usual. 

"  Have  you  found  your  friend  ? "  she  asked,  faithful  to 
her  resolution. 

"Not  a  sign  of  him,"  said  Guy.  "What  on  earth  he 
came  for,  I  can't  think.  Miss  Peasey  never  saw  him,  and 
of  course  she  never  heard  him.  He  must  have  been 
bicycling.  However,  don't  let's  waste  time  in  talking 
about  Michael  Fane." 

Pauline  smiled  at  him  with  all  her  heart.  How  wonder- 
ful Guy  was  to  reward  her  so  richly  for  the  little  effort 
it  had  cost  to  inquire  about  his  friend! 

"I've  been  prospecting  this  morning,"  he  announced, 
as  they  shot  along  in  the  direction  of  the  bridge.  "They 
12  169 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

haven't  started  to  make  hay  on  the  other  side,  so  I'm 
going  to  paddle  you  furiously  up-stream  until  we  find  some 
secret  and  magical  meadow  where  we  can  hide  and  forget 
about  yesterday's  fiasco." 

They  glided  underneath  the  bridge  and  left  it  quivering 
in  the  empty  sunlight  behind  them;  they  swept  silently 
over  the  mill-pond  while  Pauline  held  her  breath.  Then 
the  banks  closed  in  upon  their  canoe  and  Guy  fought  his 
way  against  the  swifter  running  of  the  water,  on  and  on, 
on  and  on  between  the  long  grasses  of  the  uncut  meadows, 
on  and  on,  on  and  on  past  the  waterfall  where  the  Abbey 
stream  joined  the  main  stream  and  gave  it  a  wider  and 
easier  course. 

"Phew!  it's  hot,"  Guy  exclaimed.  "Sprinkle  me  with 
water." 

She  splashed  him,  laughing;  and  he  seized  her  hand  to 
kiss  her  dabbled  fingers. 

"Laugh,  my  sweet,  sweet  heart,"  he  said.  "It  was 
your  laugh  I  heard  before  I  ever  heard  your  voice,  that 
night  when  I  stood  and  looked  at  you  and  Margaret  as 
if  you  were  two  silver  people  who  had  fallen  down  from 
the  moon." 

Again  she  sprinkled  him,  laughing,  and  again  he  seized 
her  hand  and  kissed  her  dabbled  fingers. 

"They're  as  cool  as  coral,"  he  said.  "Why  are  you 
wrinkling  your  nose  at  me?  Pauline,  your  eyes  have 
vanished  away!" 

He  plucked  speedwell  flowers  and  threw  them  into  her 
lap. 

"When  I  haven't  got  you  with  me,"  he  said,  "I  have 
to  pretend  that  the  speedwells  are  your  eyes,  and  that 
the  dog-roses  are  your  cheeks." 

"And  what  is  my  nose?"  she  asked,  clapping  her  hands 
because  she  was  sure  he  would  not  be  able  to  think  of 
any  likeness. 

"Your  nose  is  incomparable,"  he  told  her;  and  then  he 
bent  to  his  paddle  and  made  the  canoe  fly  along  so  that 

170 


SUMMER 

the  water  fluted  to  right  and  left  of  the  bows.  Ultimately 
they  came  to  an  island  where  all  the  afternoon  they  sat 
under  a  willow  that  was  pluming  with  scanty  shade  a 
thousand  forget-me-nots. 

Problems  faded  out  upon  the  languid  air,  for  Pauline 
was  too  well  content  with  Guy's  company  to  spoil  the 
June  peace.  At  last,  however,  she  disengaged  herself 
from  his  caressing  arm  and  turned  to  him  a  serious  and 
puzzled  face.  And  when  she  was  asking  her  question 
she  knew  how  all  the  afternoon  it  had  been  fretting  the 
back  of  her  mind. 

"Why  was  Mother  angry  with  me  yesterday  because 
I  came  into  Plashers  Mead  to  say  good  night  to  you?" 

"Was  she  angry?"  asked  Guy. 

"Well,  Monica  saw  us  and  got  home  before  me  and 
told  her,  and  she  was  worried  at  what  people  would  think. 
What  would  they  think?" 

Guy  looked  at  her;  then  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  sky. 

"Oh,  God,  why  must  people  try  .  .  ." 

She  touched  his  arm. 

"Guy,  don't  swear.  At  least  not.  .  .  .  You'll  call  me 
superstitious  and  foolish,"  she  murmured,  dismayfully, 
"but  really  it  hurts  me  to  hear  you  say  that." 

"I  don't  think  you  anything  but  the  most  lovely  and 
perfect  thing  on  earth,"  he  vowed,  passionately.  "And 
it  drives  me  mad  that  people  should  try  to  spoil  your 
naturalness  .  .  .  but  still  ...  it  was  thoughtless  of  me." 

"  But  why,  why?"  she  asked.  "That's  the  word  Mother 
used  about  you.  Only  why,  why?  Why  shouldn't  I  go 
and  say  good  night?" 

"  Dear,  there  was  no  harm  in  that.  But,  you  see,  village 
people  might  say  horrible  things.  ...  I  was  dreadfully  to 
blame.  Yes,  of  course  I  was." 

She  flushed  like  a  carnation  at  dawn;  and  when  Guy 
put  his  arm  round  her  she  drew  away. 

"Oh,  Guy,"  she  said,  brokenly,  "I  can't  bear  to  think 
of  being  alone  to-night.  I  shall  be  asking  questions  all 

171 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

the  night  long;  I  know  I  shall.  It's  like  that  horrid 
mill-pool." 

"Mill-pool?"  he  echoed,  looking  at  her  in  perplexity. 

She  sighed  and  stared  sadly  down  at  the  forget-me- 
nots. 

"You  wouldn't  understand;  you'd  think  I  was  hysteri- 
cal and  stupid." 

Silently  they  left  the  island,  and  silently  for  some  time 
they  floated  down  the  stream;  then  Pauline  tossed  her 
head  bravely. 

"Love's  rather  cruel  in  a  way." 

Guy  looked  aghast. 

"Pauline,  you  don't  regret  falling  in  love  with  me?" 

"No,  of  course  not,  of  course  not.  Oh,  I  love  you 
more  than  I  can  say." 

When  Guy's  arms  were  round  her  again  Pauline  thought 
that  love  could  be  as  cruel  as  he  chose;  she  did  not  care 
for  his  cruelty. 


JULY 

GUY  had  been  conscious  ever  since  the  rose-gold  eve- 
ning of  the  ragged-robins  of  new  elements  having 
entered  into  his  and  Pauline's  love  for  each  other.  All  this 
month,  however,  June  creeping  upon  them  with  verdur- 
ous and  muffled  steps  had  plotted  to  foil  the  least  attempt 
on  Guy's  part  to  face  the  situation.  Now  the  casual  in- 
discretion of  yesterday  brought  him  sharply  against  it, 
and,  as  in  the  melancholy  of  the  long  Summer  evening  he 
contemplated  the  prospect,  it  appeared  disquieting  enough. 
In  nine  months  he  had  done  nothing;  no  quibbling  could 
circumvent  that  deadly  fact.  For  nine  months  he  had 
lived  in  a  house  of  his  own,  had  accepted  paternal  help, 
had  betrothed  himself;  and  with  every  passing  month 
he  had  done  less  to  justify  any  single  one  of  the  steps. 
What  were  the  remedies?  The  house  might  be  sub-let; 
at  any  rate,  his  father's  bounty  came  to  an  end  this 
quarter;  engaging  himself  formally  to  Pauline,  he  could 
throttle  the  Muse  and  become  a  schoolmaster,  and  in 
two  years  perhaps  they  could  be  married.  It  would  be 
a  wrench  to  abandon  poetry  and  the  hope  of  fame,  indeed 
it  would  stagger  the  very  foundations  of  his  pride;  but 
rather  than  lose  Pauline  he  would  be  content  to  remain 
the  obscurest  creature  on  earth.  Literature  might  blazon 
his  name;  but  her  love  blazoned  his  soul.  Poetry  was 
only  the  flame  of  life  made  visible,  and  if  he  were  to  sac- 
rifice Pauline  what  gasping  and  ignoble  rushlight  of  his 
own  would  he  offer  to  the  world  ? 

Yet  could  he  bear  to  leave  Pauline  herself?    The  truth 

173 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

was  he  should  have  gone  in  March,  when  she  was  in  a 
way  still  remote  and  when  like  a  star  she  would  have 
shone  as  brightly  upon  him  absent  or  present.  Now  that 
star  was  burning  in  his  heart  with  passionate  fires  and 
fevers  and  with  quenchless  ardors.  It  would  be  like  death 
to  leave  her  now;  were  she  absent  from  him  her  very 
name  would  be  as  a  draught  of  liquid  fire.  More  im- 
placable, too,  than  his  own  torment  of  love  might  be  hers. 
If  he  had  gone  in  March,  she  would  have  been  gently  sad, 
but  in  those  first  months  she  still  had  other  interests; 
now  if  he  parted  from  her  she  would  merely  all  the  time 
be  growing  older  and  they  would  have  between  them  and 
their  separation  the  intolerable  wastage  of  their  youth. 
Pauline  had  surrendered  to  love  all  the  simple  joys  which 
had  hitherto  occupied  her  daily  life;  and  if  she  were  di- 
vided from  him,  he  feared  for  the  fire  that  might  consume 
her.  It  was  he  who  had  kindled  it  upon  that  rosaureate 
evening  of  mid-May,  and  it  was  he  who  was  charged  with 
her  ultimate  happiness.  The  accident  of  yesterday  had 
reminded  him  sharply  how  far  this  was  so,  and  a  sense  of 
the  tremendous  responsibility  created  by  his  love  for  her 
lay  upon  Guy.  He  must  never  again  give  her  family  an 
occasion  to  remonstrate  with  her;  he  had  been  the  one 
to  blame,  and  he  wished  Mrs.  Grey  had  spoken  to  him 
without  saying  anything  to  Pauline.  How  sad  this  long 
evening  was,  with  reluctant  day  even  now  at  half  past 
nine  o'clock  still  luminous  in  the  west. 

Next  morning  there  was  a  letter  for  Guy  from  his 
father. 

Fox  HALL,  GALTON,  HANTS, 

June  24th. 

MY  DEAR  GUY, — I  inclose  the  balance  of  the  sum  I  gave 
you,  and  I  hope  it  will  have  been  enough  to  pay  all  the  debts 
at  which  you  hinted  in  your  last  letter.  I  do  not  think  it  would 
be  fair  to  you  to  hamper  you  with  any  more  money.  In  fact, 
I  trust  you  have  already  made  up  your  mind  not  to  ask  for  any. 
You'll  be  sorry  to  hear  that  Wilkinson  has  fallen  ill  and  must 

174 


SUMMER 

go  abroad  at  once.  This  makes  it  imperative  for  me  to  know 
at  once  if  you  are  coming  to  help  me  next  September.  If  you 
are,  I'm  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  come  here  immediately  and 
take  Wilkinson's  place  this  term.  I'm  sorry  to  drag  you  away 
from  your  country  estate,  but  I  cannot  go  to  the  bother  of 
getting  a  temporary  master  and  then  begin  again  with  you  in 
September.  It  unsettles  the  boys  too  much.  So  if  you  want 
to  come  in  September,  you  must  come  now.  You  will  only  miss 
a  month  of  your  house  and  I  hope  that  during  the  seven  weeks 
of  the  summer  holidays  you  will  be  able  to  transfer  yourself 
comfortably  and  abandon  it  for  ever. 

Take  a  day  to  think  over  my  proposal  and  telegraph  your 
answer  to-morrow. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  HAZLEWOOD. 

It  seemed  fateful,  the  arrival  of  this  letter  on  top  of 
the  doubts  of  last  night.  A  day  was  not  long  in  which 
to  make  up  his  mind.  And  yet,  after  all,  a  moment  was 
enough.  He  ought  to  go;  he  ought  to  telegraph  im- 
mediately before  he  could  vacillate;  he  must  not  see 
Pauline  first;  he  ought  to  accept  this  offer.  Farewell, 
fame! 

Guy  opened  the  front  door  and  walked  into  Birdwood 
come  with  a  note  from  the  Rectory. 

"Miss  Pauline  took  me  away  from  my  work  to  give 
you  this  most  particular  and  important  and  wait  for  the 
answer,"  said  the  gardener. 

Guy  asked  him  to  step  inside  and  see  Miss  Peasey  while 
he  went  up-stairs  to  write  the  reply. 

"Miss  Peasey  doesn't  think  much  of  your  variety, 
Birdwood.  She  says  the  garden  is  entirely  blue." 

"What,  all  those  dellyphiniums  the  Rector  raised  with 
his  own  hand  and  she  don't  like  blue!" 

Birdwood  shook  his  head  to  express  another  defeat  at 
the  hands  of  incomprehensible  woman.  A  moment  later, 
as  Guy  went  up  to  his  room  with  Pauline's  note,  he  heard 
him  bellow  in  the  kitchen: 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"What's  this  I  hear,  mum,  about  the  garden  being  too 
blue?" 

Then  Guy  closed  the  door  of  the  library  and  shut  out 
everything  but  the  sound  of  the  stream. 

MY  DARLING, — I've  got  such  exciting  news.  Mr.  Delamere 
who's  a  friend  of  ours  has  asked  us  to  stay  in  his  barge — I  mean 
he's  lent  us  the  barge  for  us  to  stay  in.  It's  called  the  Naiad 
and  it's  on  the  Thames  at  Ladingford  and  when  we've  finished 
with  it  we're  going  to  have  it  towed  down  to  Oxford  and  come 
back  from  there  by  train.  Mother  asked  if  you  would  like  to 
come  and  stay  with  us  for  a  fortnight.  Think  of  it,  a  fortnight! 
Margaret  is  coming  and  Monica  is  going  to  stay  with  Father, 
who  can't  leave  the  garden.  Oh,  Guy,  I'm  wild  with  happi- 
ness! We're  to  start  on  the  first  of  July  about.  Do  send  me  a 
little  note  by  Birdwood.  Of  course  I  know  there's  no  need. 
But  I  would  love  to  have  a  little  note  especially  as  we  sha'n't 
see  each  other  till  after  lunch. 

Your  own  adoring 

PAULINE. 

Guy  wrote  the  little  note  to  Pauline,  and  to  his  father 
he  wrote  a  long  letter  explaining  that  it  was  impossible 
to  give  up  what  he  was  doing  to  be  a  schoolmaster. 

It  was  peerless  weather  when  they  set  out  in  Godbold's 
wagonette  on  the  nine  miles  to  Ladingford.  Guy  was 
thrilled  to  be  traveling  like  this  with  Mrs.  Grey,  Mar- 
garet, and  Pauline.  The  girls  were  in  flowered  muslin 
dresses,  seeming  more  airy  than  he  had  ever  thought 
them;  and  the  luggage  piled  up  beside  Godbold  had  the 
same  exquisite  lightness,  so  that  it  appeared  less  like 
luggage  than  a  store  of  birds'  feathers.  The  thought  of 
nearly  having  missed  this  summery  pilgrimage  made  Guy 
catch  his  breath. 

They  arrived  at  Ladington  towards  tea-time  and  found 
the  barge  lying  by  an  old  stone  bridge  about  a  mile  away 
from  the  village.  Apart  from  the  spire  of  Ladingford 
church  nothing  conspicuously  broke  the  horizon  of  that 
flat,  green  country  stretching  for  miles  to  a  shadowy  range 

I76 


SUMMER 

of  hills.  Whichever  way  they  looked,  these  meads  ex- 
tended, with  here  and  there  willows  and  elms;  close  at 
hand  was  the  quiet  by-road  that  crossed  the  bridge  and 
meandered  over  the  low  lands,  as  still  and  traffickless  as 
the  young  Thames  itself. 

The  Naiad  was  painted  peacock-blue;  owing  to  the 
turreted  poops  the  owner  had  superimposed  and  the  balus- 
trade with  rail  of  gilt  gadroons,  it  almost  had  the  look  of 
a  dismasted  Elizabethan  ship. 

"Anything  more  you'll  want?"  Godbold  inquired. 

"Nothing  more,  thank  you,  Mr.  Godbold,"  said  Mrs. 
Grey.  "Charming  .  .  .  charming  .  .  .  such  a  pleasant 
drive.  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Godbold." 

The  carrier  turned  his  horse;  and  when  the  sound  of 
the  wagonette  had  died  away  there  was  silence  except 
where  the  stream  lapped  against  the  barge  and  where 
very  far  off  some  rooks  were  cawing. 

Guy  and  Pauline  had  resolved  that  they  would  give 
Margaret  no  chance  of  calling  them  selfish  during  this 
fortnight;  and  since  they  were  together  all  the  time,  it 
was  much  easier  now  not  to  wish  to  escape  from  every- 
body. The  first  week  went  by  in  such  a  perfection  of 
delight  as  Guy  had  scarcely  thought  was  possible.  Indeed, 
it  remained  ultimately  unimaginable,  this  dream-life  on 
the  Naiad.  A  pleasant  woman  in  a  sunbonnet  came  to 
cook  breakfast  and  dinner;  and  Pauline  and  Margaret 
went  to  Ladingford  and  bought  sunbonnets,  a  pink  one 
for  Pauline  and  for  Margaret  one  of  watchet  blue.  In  the 
fresh  mornings  Guy  and  the  sisters  wandered  idly  over 
the  meads;  but  in  the  afternoon  Margaret  generally  read 
a  book  in  the  shade  while  Guy  and  Pauline  went  for  walks, 
walks  that  ended  always  in  sitting  by  the  river's  edge  and 
telling  each  other  the  tale  of  their  love.  The  nights  with 
a  clear  moon  waxing  to  the  full  were  entrancing.  There 
was  a  small  piano  on  the  barge,  the  notes  of  which  had 
been  brought  by  damp  almost  to  the  timbre  of  an  exhausted 
spinet.  It  served,  however,  for  Mrs.  Grey  to  accompany 

177 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Pauline  while  she  played  on  a  violin  simple  tunes.  Guy 
used  to  lie  back  on  the  deck  and  count  the  stars  above 
Pauline's  pavans  and  galliards;  then  from  the  silence 
that  followed  he  would  see  her  coming,  shadowy,  light  as 
the  dewfall,  to  sit  close  beside  him,  to  sit,  her  hand  in  his, 
for  an  hour  while  the  moon  climbed  the  sky  and  the  fern- 
owls croaked  in  their  hunting.  And  as  the  romantic 
climax  of  the  day,  it  was  wonderful  to  fall  asleep  with 
the  knowledge  that  Pauline  slept  nearer  to  him  than  she 
had  ever  slept  before. 

"Guy  ought  to  go  and  see  the  Lamberts  at  the  Manor," 
Mrs.  Grey  announced  at  the  end  of  the  second  week. 
"I've  written  to  Mrs.  Lambert.  It  will  be  interesting 
for  him." 

Guy  was  thrilled  by  the  notion  of  visting  Ladingford 
Manor,  which  had  been  one  of  the  great  fortresses  of 
romance  held  against  the  devastating  commercial  morality 
of  the  Victorian  prime  with  its  science  and  sciolism,  and 
which  possessed  already  some  of  the  fabulous  appeal  of 
the  medieval  songs  and  tapestries  John  Lambert  had 
created  there.  An  invitation  came  presently  to  walk 
over  any  afternoon.  Margaret  said  at  first  she  would  not 
go;  but  Guy,  who  was  in  a  condition  of  excited  reverence, 
declared  she  must  come;  and  so  the  three  of  them  set 
out  across  a  path  in  the  meads  that  Guy  populated  with 
romantic  figures  of  the  mid-Victorian  days.  On  this  stile 
Swinburne  may  have  sat;  here  Burne-Jones  may  have 
looked  back  at  the  sky;  and  surely  it  were  reasonable  to 
suppose  that  Rossetti  might  have  tied  up  his  shoe  on  this 
big  stone  by  this  brook,  even  as  Guy  was  tying  up  his 
shoe  now.  Soon  they  saw  a  group  of  elms  and  the  smoke 
of  clustered  chimneys;  there  golden-gray  in  front  of 
them  stood  Ladingford  Manor. 

"There's  the  sort  of  stillness  of  fame  about  it,"  Guy 
whispered. 

He  wondered  if  Mrs.  Lambert  would  now  resemble  at 
all  the  famous  pictures  of  her  he  had  seen.  And  would 

178 


SUMMER 

she  talk  familiarly  of  the  famous  people  she  had  known  ? 
They  came  to  the  gate,  entering  the  garden  along  a  flagged 
path  on  either  side  of  which  runnels  flowed  between  bor- 
ders of  trim  box.  Mrs.  Lambert  was  sitting  in  a  yew  par- 
lor under  a  blue-silk  umbrella  that  was  almost  a  pavilion, 
and  she  received  them  with  many  comments  upon  the 
energy  of  walking  so  far  on  this  hot  afternoon. 

"You  would  like  some  beer,  I'm  sure.  There  is  a  bell 
in  that  mulberry-tree.  If  you  toll  the  bell  Charlotte  will 
bring  you  beer." 

Guy  tolled  the  bell,  and  Charlotte  arrived  with  a  pewter 
tray  and  pewter  mugs  of  beer.  Margaret  would  not  be 
thirsty,  but  Pauline  was  afraid  of  hurting  Mrs.  Lambert's 
feelings,  and  she  pretended  to  drink,  lancing  blue  eyes  at 
Guy  over  the  rim  of  her  mug. 

"It's  home-brewed  beer,"  said  Mrs.  Lambert,  placidly, 
and  then  she  leaned  back  and  sighed  at  the  dome  of  her 
blue-silk  umbrella.  She  was  still  very  beautiful,  and  Guy 
had  a  sensation  that  he  was  sitting  at  the  feet  of  Helen 
or  Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman.  She  was  old  now,  but 
she  wore  about  her  like  an  aureole  the  dignity  of  all  those 
inspirations  of  famous  dead  painters. 

"Home-brewed  beer,"  Mrs.  Lambert  repeated,  dreami- 
ly, and  seemed  to  fall  asleep  in  the  past;  while  in  the 
bee-drowsed  yew  parlor  Pauline,  Margaret,  and  Guy  sat 
watching  her.  The  throat  of  Sidonia  the  sorceress  was 
hers;  the  heavy  lids  of  Hipparchia  were  hers;  the  wrist 
of  Ermengarde  or  Queen  Blanche  was  hers;  and  the 
pewter  tray  on  the  grass  at  her  feet  held  Circe's  wine. 

Then  Mrs.  Lambert  woke  up  and  asked  if  they  would 
like  to  see  the  house. 

"Toll  the  bell  in  the  mulberry-tree,  and  Charlotte  will 
come.  You  must  excuse  my  getting  up." 

They  followed  Charlotte  round  the  rooms  of  Ladingford 
Manor.  There  on  the  walls  were  the  tapestries  that  had 
inspired  John  Lambert,  and  there  were  the  tapestries  even 
more  beautiful  that  himself  had  woven.  On  the  tables 

179 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

were  the  books  John  Lambert  had  printed,  which  gave 
positively  the  aspect  of  being  treasures  by  the  discretion 
of  their  external  appearance.  In  other  rooms  hung  the 
original  pictures  of  hackneyed  mezzotints;  and  how  rare 
they  looked  now  with  their  velvety  pigments  of  emerald 
and  purple,  of  orange,  cinnabar  and  scarlet  glowing  in  the 
tempered  sunlight!  Margaret,  as  she  moved  from  room 
to  room,  seemed  with  her  weight  of  dusky  hair  and  fas- 
tidious remoteness  to  belong  to  the  company  of  lovely 
women  whose  romances  filled  these  splendid  scenes;  but 
Pauline  was  life,  irradiating  with  her  joy  each  picture  and 
giving  to  it  the  complement  of  its  own  still  beauty. 

"Mrs.  Lambert  keeps  very  well,  miss,"  said  Charlotte, 
as  they  came  out  again  from  the  house.  "  But,  of  course, 
she  doesn't  get  about  much  now.  Yet  we  can't  really 
complain,  especially  with  this  fine  weather." 

"Would  you  like  some  more  beer?"  Mrs.  Lambert 
asked,  when  they  joined  her  again  in  the  yew  parlor. 

They  said  they  were  no  longer  thirsty;  and,  having 
thanked  her  for  the  pleasures  of  the  visit,  they  left  her 
in  the  past,  returning  by  the  pale-green  path  across  the 
meadows  to  where  the  Naiad  lay  by  the  old  bridge. 

"Oh,  I  did  want  some  tea,"  sighed  Margaret. 

"I  love  Mrs.  Lambert,"  cried  Pauline,  dancing  through 
the  meads.  "Wasn't  it  touching  of  her  to  offer  Margaret 
beer?  Oh,  Guy,  when  we're  married  and  when  you  die 
and  I  receive  young  poets  at  Plashers  Mead,  shall  I  offer 
their  future  sisters-in-law  home-brewed  beer?  Oh,  but 
I'm  sure  I  shall  forget  to  offer  them  anything." 

Was  there  any  reason,  thought  Guy,  why  Plashers 
Mead  should  not  become  a  second  Ladingford  Manor? 
Friends  long  ago  took  that  house  together;  perhaps 
Michael  Fane  would,  after  all,  see  the  necessity  of  a  second 
Ladingford  Manor  and  share  Plashers  Mead  with  him- 
self and  Pauline.  After  this  visit  it  was  impossible  to 
contemplate  the  prospect  of  being  a  schoolmaster;  it 
was  impossible  to  imagine  Pauline  as  a  schoolmaster's 

1 80 


SUMMER 

wife.  At  all  costs  their  love  must  be  sustained  on  the 
pinnacle  of  romance  where  now  it  stood.  Margaret  would 
sympathize  with  his  desire  to  set  Pauline  in  beauty;  she, 
dreading  the  idea  of  marrying  an  Indian  engineer,  would 
understand  how  impossible  it  was  to  make  Pauline  the 
wife  of  a  schoolmaster.  Such  a  declaration  must  some- 
how be  avoided.  It  were  better  they  should  wait  three 
years  for  marriage,  five  years,  fourteen  years  as  Tennyson 
had  waited,  rather  than  that  he  should  make  the  mon- 
strous surrender  he  had  been  so  near  to  making.  At 
least  he  would  put  himself  and  his  work  to  the  test,  and 
in  a  year  he  would  be  able  to  publish  his  first  volume  of 
poems.  Perhaps  his  father  would  realize  then  that  he 
deserved  to  marry  Pauline.  After  all,  they  were  together; 
there  were  maddening  restrictions,  of  course,  but  they  were 
together.  This  visit  to  Ladingford  Manor  must  be  ac- 
cepted as  an  omen  to  persevere  in  his  original  intention; 
for  he  had  been  granted  the  vision  of  a  perfected 
beauty,  which  he  knew,  by  reading  the  lives  of  the  men 
who  made  it,  had  only  been  achieved  after  desperate  strug- 
gles and  disappointments.  This  enchanted  time  on  the 
Naiad  must  be  the  anticipated  reward  of  a  tremendous 
industry  when  he  got  back  to  Wychford.  He  would  no 
more  break  the  rules  and  fret  at  the  restrictions  made  for 
him  and  Pauline.  Every  hour  when  they  were  together 
should  henceforth  be  doubled  in  the  intensity  of  its  capac- 
ity for  being  enjoyed.  One  thing  only  he  would  demand, 
that  in  August  they  should  be  formally  and  openly  en- 
gaged. Otherwise  when  Autumn  came  and  made  it  im- 
possible to  go  on  the  river,  they  would  be  kept  to  the 
Rectory;  and  the  few  hours  of  her  company  he  would 
have  must  at  least  be  free.  He  would  talk  to  Margaret 
about  it,  so  that  she  might  use  her  influence  to  procure 
this  favor.  Then  he  would  write  and  tell  his  father.  All 
would  be  easy;  Ladingford  had  inspired  him.  He  be- 
held the  visit  in  retrospect  more  and  more  clearly  as  an 
exhortation  to  endure  against  whatever  the  world  should 

181 


FLASHERS   MEAD 

offer  him  to  betray  his  ambition.  Yet  was  Pauline  the 
world?  No,  certainly  Pauline  had  no  kinship  with  the 
world,  and  therefore  he  was  the  more  straitly  bound  to 
disregard  the  voice  of  material  prosperity.  She  had  joked 
about  herself  as  a  Mrs.  Lambert  of  the  future;  but  be- 
hind the  lightness  of  her  jest  had  stood  confidence  in  him- 
self and  in  his  fame.  Should  he  imprison  that  spirit  of 
mirth  and  fire  in  the  husk  of  a  schoolmaster's  wife? 

The  second  week  passed;  the  time  at  Ladingford  was 
over,  and  early  in  the  morning  they  must  start  for  the 
journey  of  thirty  miles  down  to  Oxford.  The  dapple-gray 
horse  that  would  tow  the  barge  was  already  arrived, 
and  now  stood  munching  the  long  grass  in  the  shade  of 
the  bridge;  the  swallows  were  high  in  the  golden  air  of 
the  afternoon;  the  long-purples  on  the  banks  of  the  young 
river  seemed  to  await  reproachfully  the  disturbance  of 
their  tranquillity.  To-morrow  came;  the  dapple-gray 
horse  was  harnessed  to  the  rope;  and  then  slowly,  slowly 
the  Naiad  glided  forward,  leaving  astern  the  gray  bridge, 
the  long-purples  on  the  bank,  and  the  swallows  high  in 
the  silver  air  of  the  morning.  There  was  not  yet  any 
poignancy  of  parting;  for  the  spire  of  Ladingford  church 
remained  so  long  in  sight  that  scarcely  did  they  notice 
the  slow  recession;  and  often,  when  they  thought  it  was 
gone,  the  winding  river  would  show  it  to  them  again;  and 
in  the  end,  when  really  it  seemed  to  have  vanished,  by 
standing  on  the  poop  they  could  still  make  out  where 
now  it  pierced  thinly  the  huge  sky.  Moreover,  the  con- 
tentment of  that  imperceptible  evanescence  and  of  their 
dreaming  progress  down  the  young  Thames  was  plenary, 
lulling  all  regrets  for  a  peace  that  seemed  not  yet  truly 
to  be  lost.  The  hay  in  the  meadows  along  the  banks  was 
mostly  carried,  and  the  cattle  were  magically  fused  with 
the  July  sunlight,  curiously  dematerialized  like  the  crea- 
tures of  a  mirage.  If  a  human  voice  was  audible,  it  was 
audible  deep  in  the  green  distance  and  belonged  to  the 
landscape  as  gently  as  the  murmurous  water  scalloping 

182 


SUMMER 

the  bows.  Sometimes,  indeed,  they  would  pass  late  mowers 
who  leaned  upon  their  scythes  and  waved  good  fortune  to 
the  journey,  but  mostly  it  was  all  an  emptiness  of  air  and 
grass. 

"If  only  this  young  Thames  flowed  on  for  ever!"  said 
Guy. 

He  and  Pauline  were  leaning  over  the  rail  of  the  barge, 
and  Guy  felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  snatch  at  the  bank  rich 
in  that  moment  with  yellow  loosestrife,  and  by  his  action 
arrest  for  ever  the  progress  of  the  barge,  so  that  for  ever 
they  would  stay  like  the  lovers  on  a  Grecian  urn. 

"And  really,"  Guy  went  on,  as  already  the  banks  of 
yellow  loosestrife  were  become  banks  of  long-purples, 
"there  is  no  reason  why  for  us  in  a  way  this  river  should 
not  flow  on  for  ever.  Dear,  everything  had  seemed  so 
perishable  before  I  found  you.  Pauline,  you  don't  think 
I  ought  to  surrender  my  intention,  do  you  ?  I  mean,  you 
don't  think  I  ought  to  go  away  from  Plashers  Mead?" 

Guy  went  on  to  tell  her  about  the  decision  he  had  taken 
on  the  day  the  visit  to  Ladingford  was  arranged. 

"But  it  would  have  been  dreadful  to  miss  this  time," 
Pauline  declared. 

"Oh,  I  felt  it  would  be  impossible,"  he  agreed.  "But 
even  if  our  marriage  is  postponed  for  another  year,  you 
do  think  I  ought  to  stick  it  out  here,  don't  you?  And 
really,  you  know,  few  lovers  can  have  such  wonderful 
hours  as  the  hours  we  do  have." 

Easily  she  reassured  him  with  her  confidence  in  the 
Tightness  of  his  decision;  easily  she  assuaged  the  ache  of 
any  lingering  doubt  with  the  proclamation  of  that  inevi- 
table triumph  in  the  end. 

"But  we  must  be  engaged  openly,"  said  Guy.  "You 
know  I  shall  be  twenty-three  next  month.  Do  you 
think  we  can  be  engaged  properly  in  August?" 

"Mother  promised  in  Spring,"  said  Pauline.  "Why 
don't  you  talk  to  her  about  it?  Why  don't  you  talk 
to  her  about  it  now  ?  She  loves  you  to  talk  to  her." 

183 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

He  looked  round  to  where  Mrs.  Grey  was  sitting  in  a 
deck-chair;  evidently  by  the  rhythmic  motion  of  her 
fingers  she  was  restating  to  herself  a  tune  which  had  for- 
merly pleased  her,  as  the  barge  glided  on  past  a  scene  that 
changed  perceptibly  only  in  details  of  flowers  and  trees, 
while  the  great  sky  and  the  green  hollow  land  and  the 
blue  distances  rested  immutable.  Guy  came  and  sat 
beside  her. 

"I've  never  enjoyed  a  fortnight  so  much  in  my  life,"  he 
said. 

She  smiled  at  him  but  did  not  speak,  for  whatever 
quartet  she  was  restating  had  to  be  finished  first.  Soon 
the  last  noiseless  bars  played  themselves  and  she  turned 
round  to  his  conversation. 

"Mrs.  Grey,  do  you  think  that  Pauline  and  I  can  be 
engaged  openly  next  month  ?  It  won't  mean,  if  we  are, 
that  I  shall  be  worrying  to  see  her  more  often.  In  fact, 
I'm  sure  I  shall  worry  less.  But  I  want  to  tell  my  father, 
so  that  when  he  comes  here  he'll  be  able  to  see  Pauline. 
He's  a  conventional  sort  of  man,  and  I  don't  think  he'd 
grasp  an  engagement  such  as  ours  is  at  present.  Besides, 
I  want  to  talk  to  the  Rector,  because  I  feel  that  now  he 
regards  the  whole  thing  as  a  childish  game.  So  can  it  be 
formal  next  month  ?" 

Mrs.  Grey  sat  back,  so  silent  that  Guy  wondered  if  she 
had  listened  to  a  word  he  had  been  saying.  He  paused  for 
a  moment,  and  then,  as  she  did  not  reply,  he  went  on: 

"I  also  want  to  say  how  sorry  I  am  that  I  asked  Pauline 
to  come  into  Plashers  Mead  to  say  good  night  to  me  last 
month.  I  didn't  realize,  until  she  told  me  you  were  angry 
about  it,  what  a  foolish  thing  I'd  done.  I  don't  want  you 
to  think  that,  if  we  are  formally  engaged,  I  shall  be  doing 
stupid  things  like  that  all  the  time.  Really,  Mrs.  Grey,  I 
would  always  be  very  thoughtful." 

"Oh  yes,"  she  answered  in  her  nervous  way.  "Oh 
yes.  I  understood  it  to  have  been  a  kind  of  carelessness. 
But  I  had  to  speak  to  Pauline  about  it,  because  she  is  so 

184 


SUMMER 

very  impulsive.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  I  might  have  done 
myself  when  I  was  a  girl.  At  least,  of  course,  I  shouldn't, 
because  the  Rector  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  charming  .  .  .  charming 
.  .  .  yes  ...  I  really  think  you  might  be  engaged  next 
month.  It's  your  birthday  next  month,  isn't  it?" 

"Thank  you  more  than  I  can  thank  you,"  said  Guy. 

Mrs.  Grey  waved  to  Pauline,  who  drew  close. 

"  Pauline  darling,  I've  thought  of  such  a  nice  birthday 
present  for  Guy  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  charming,  charming  birth- 
day present  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  for  you  two  to  be  engaged." 

Pauline  threw  her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck;  and 
Guy  in  his  happiness  noticed  at  that  moment  how  Mar- 
garet was  sitting  by  herself  on  the  poop  in  the  stern.  He 
was  wrenched  by  a  sudden  compunction,  and  asked 
Pauline  if  he  should  not  go  and  tell  Margaret. 

"Charming  of  Guy  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  charming,"  Mrs.  Grey 
enthusiastically  exclaimed.  "Now  I  call  that  really 
charming,  and  Pauline  stays  with  me." 

Guy  went  up  the  companion  and  asked  Margaret  if  she 
were  particularly  anxious  to  be  alone.  She  seemed  to  pull 
herself  from  a  day-dream  as  she  turned  to  assure  him  she 
did  not  at  all  particularly  want  to  be  alone.  Guy  an- 
nounced his  good  news,  and  Margaret  offered  him  her 
slim  hand  with  a  kind  of  pathetic  grace  that  moved  him 
very  much. 

"I  think  you  deserve  it,"  she  said,  "for  you've  both 
been  so  sweet  to  me  all  this  fortnight.  I  expect  you 
think  I  don't  notice,  but  I  do  ...  always." 

"Margaret,"  said  Guy,  "if  this  Summer  Pauline  and  I 
have  seemed  to  run  away  from  people  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  but  you  have!"  Margaret  interrupted.  "I  don't 
think  I  should  find  excuses,  if  I  were  you,  for  perhaps  it's 
natural." 

"I've  fancied  very  often,"  he  said,  "that  you've  thought 
we  were  behaving  selfishly." 

"I  think  all  lovers  are  selfish,"  she  answered.  "Only 
in  your  case  you  began  in  such  an  idyllic  way  that  I 
13  185 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

thought  you  were  going  to  be  a  wonderful  exception. 
Guy,  I  do  most  dreadfully  want  you  not  to  spoil  in  any 
way  the  perfectly  beautiful  thing  that  Pauline  and  you 
in  love  is.  You  won't,  will  you?" 

"Have  I  yet?"  asked  Guy  in  a  rather  dismayed  voice. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  be  frank  ?  Yes,  of  course  you  do, 
and  anyway  I  must  be  frank,"  said  Margaret.  "Well, 
sometimes  you  have — I  don't  mean  in  wanting  always  to 
be  alone  or  in  asking  her  in  to  Flashers  Mead  to  say  good 
night.  No,  I  don't  mean  in  those  ways  so  much.  Of 
course  they  make  me  feel  a  little  sad,  but  smaller  things 
than  that  make  me  more  uneasy." 

"You  mean,"  said  Guy,  as  she  paused,  "my  staying  on 
here  and  apparently  doing  nothing?  But,  Margaret, 
really  I  can't  leave  Pauline  to  be  a  schoolmaster,  and 
surely  you  of  all  people  can  understand  that?" 

"Oh  no,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  said  Margaret. 
"I  think,  in  fact,  you're  right  to  stay  here  and  keep  at 
what  you're  trying  to  do.  If  it  was  ever  worth  doing,  it 
must  be  doubly  worth  doing  now.  Oh  no,  the  only 
criticism  I  shall  make  is  of  something  so  small  that  you'll 
wonder  how  I  can  think  it  even  worth  mentioning.  Guy, 
you  know  the  photograph  of  Pauline  which  Mother  used 
to  have  and  which  she  gave  to  you?" 

Guy  nodded. 

"Well,  I  happened  to  see  it  on  the  table  by  your  bunk, 
and  I  wonder  why  you've  taken  it  out  of  its  simple  little 
wooden  frame  and  put  it  in  a  silver  one  ?" 

Guy  was  taken  aback,  and  when  he  asked  himself  why 
he  had  done  this  he  could  not  find  a  reason.  Now  that 
Margaret  had  spoken  of  it,  the  consciousness  of  the  ex- 
change flooded  him  with  shame  as  for  an  unforgivable 
piece  of  vandalism.  Why,  indeed,  had  he  bought  that 
silver  frame  and  put  the  old  wooden  frame  away,  and 
where  was  the  old  wooden  frame?  In  one  of  the  drawers 
in  his  desk  he  thought;  resolving  this  very  night  to  restore 
it  to  the  photograph  and  fling  the  usurper  into  the  river. 

186 


SUMMER 

"I  can't  think  why  I  did,"  he  stammered  to  Mar- 
garet. 

"You've  no  idea  how  much  this  has  worried  me,"  she 
said.  "I  never  had  any  doubts  about  your  appreciation 
of  Pauline." 

"And  now  you  have,"  said  Guy,  biting  his  lip  with 
mortification. 

The  landscape  fading  from  the  stern  of  the  barge  op- 
pressed him  with  the  sadness  of  irreparable  acts  that  are 
committed  heedlessly,  but  after  which  nothing  is  ever 
quite  the  same.  He  wished  he  could  tear  to  pieces  that 
silver  frame. 

"No,  I  won't  have  any  doubts,"  said  Margaret,  offering 
him  her  hand  again  and  smiling.  "You've  taken  my 
criticism  so  sweetly  that  the  change  can't  symbolize  so 
much  as  I  feared." 

It  was  very  well  to  be  forgiven  like  this,  Guy  thought, 
but  the  memory  of  his  blunder  was  still  hot  upon  his  cheek 
and  he  felt  a  deep  humiliation  at  the  treachery  of  his 
taste.  He  had  meant,  wrhen  he  came  here  to  talk  to  Mar- 
garet, to  ask  her  about  herself  and  Richard,  to  display 
a  captivating  sympathy  and  restore  to  their  pristine  affec- 
tion her  relations  with  him,  which  latterly  had  seemed  to 
diverge  somewhat  from  one  another.  Now  haunted  by 
that  silver  frame,  which  with  every  moment  of  thought 
appeared  more  and  more  insistently  the  vile  stationer's 
gewgaw  that  it  was,  Guy  did  not  dare  to  approach  Mar- 
garet in  the  security  of  an  old  intimacy. 

It  was  she,  however,  with  her  grace  who  healed  the 
wound. 

"You're  not  hurt  with  me  for  speaking  about  that  little 
thing?"  she  asked.  "You  see,  you  are  in  a  way  my 
brother." 

"Margaret,  you  are  a  dear!" 

And  then  recurred  to  him,  as  if  from  Ladingford  Manor, 
the  lines  of  Christina  Rossetti,  which  he  half  whispered  to 
her: 

187 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"For  there  is  no  friend  like  a  sister 
In  calm  or  stormy  weather; 
To  cheer  one  if  one  goes  astray, 
To  lift  one  if  one  totters  down, 
To  strengthen  whilst  one  stands." 

They  had  the  sharper  emotion  for  Guy  because  he  had 
neither  brothers  nor  sisters  of  his  own;  and  that  this 
lovely  girl  beside  him  on  this  dreaming  barge  should  be 
his  sister  gave  to  the  landscape  one  more  incommunicable 
beauty. 

And  so  all  day  they  glided  down  the  young  Thames; 
and  when  Guy  had  sat  long  enough  with  Margaret  in  the 
stern,  he  sat  with  Pauline  at  the  prow;  and  about  twilight 
they  reached  Oxford,  whence  they  came  to  Shipcot  by 
train  and  drove  through  five  miles  of  moonlight  back  to 
Wychford. 


AUGUST 

PAULINE  and  Guy  with  their  formal  engagement  in 
sight  were  careful  to  give  no  excuse  for  a  postpone- 
ment by  abusing  their  privileges.  The  river  was  now 
much  overgrown  with  weeds,  and  in  the  last  week  of 
July  rough  weather  set  in  which  kept  them  in  the  Rectory 
a  good  deal  on  the  occasions  when  they  met.  Guy,  too, 
was  harder  at  work  than  he  had  been  all  the  Summer. 
The  fact  of  being  presently  engaged  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  was  sufficiently  exciting  for  Pauline  to  console  her 
for  the  shorter  time  spent  with  Guy.  Moreover,  she  was 
so  grateful  to  her  family  for  not  opposing  the  publication 
of  the  engagement  that  she  tried  particularly  to  impress 
them  with  the  sameness  of  herself,  notwithstanding  her 
being  in  love  with  Guy.  It  happened,  therefore,  that  the 
old  manner  of  existence  at  the  Rectory  reasserted  itself 
for  a  while;  the  music  in  the  evenings,  the  mornings  in  the 
garden,  everything,  indeed,  that  could  make  the  family 
suppose  that  she  was  set  securely  in  the  heart  of  their 
united  life. 

"When  you  and  Margaret  marry,"  Monica  announced, 
one  afternoon  when  the  three  sisters  were  in  their  nursery, 
"I  really  think  I  shall  become  a  nun." 

"But  we  can't  all  leave  Father  and  Mother!"  Pauline 
exclaimed,  shocked  at  the  deserted  prospect. 

"Now  isn't  that  like  people  in  love?"  said  Monica. 

"Ah,  but,  anyway,  I  shall  only  be  living  at  Flashers 
Mead,"  Pauline  went  on.  "So  they  won't  be  left  entirely 
alone." 

189 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"And  as  I  probably  sha'n't  ever  make  up  my  mind  to 
be  married,"  Margaret  added,  "and  as  I've  yet  to  meet 
the  Mother  Superior  whom  Monica  could  stand  for  more 
than  a  week,  it  seems  probable  that  everything  at  the 
Rectory  will  go  on  pretty  much  the  same." 

"Margaret,  you  will  marry.  I  can't  think  why  you 
talk  like  that.  If  you  don't  intend  to  marry  Richard, 
you  ought  to  tell  him  so  now,  and  not  keep  him  any 
longer  in  uncertainty." 

Pauline  realized  that  Margaret  did  not  like  this  direct 
attack,  but  it  was  so  rarely  that  Margaret  made  it  possible 
even  to  allude  to  Richard  that  she  had  to  take  the  oppor- 
tunity. 

"I  don't  think  I've  interfered  much  with  you  and  Guy," 
said  Margaret.  "Is  it  necessary  that  you  should  settle 
my  affairs?" 

"Oh,  don't  speak  so  unkindly  to  me,  Margaret.  I'm 
not  trying  to  interfere.  And,  anyway,  you  do  criticize 
Guy  and  me.  Both  you  and  Monica  criticize  us." 

"Only  when  you  tell  us  we  don't  understand  about 
love." 

"Well,  you  don't." 

"All  of  us  don't  want  to  be  in  love  quite  so  obviously  as 
you,"  said  Margaret.  "And  Monica  agrees  with  me." 

Monica  nodded. 

"Well,  it's  my  character,"  said  Pauline.  "I  always 
knew  that  when  I  did  fall  in  love  I  should  fall  dreadfully 
deep  in  love.  I  don't  want  to  be  thinking  all  the  while 
about  my  personal  dignity.  I  adore  Guy.  Why  shouldn't 
I  show  it?  Margaret  loves  Richard,  but  simply  because 
she's  so  self-conscious  she  can't  bear  to  show  it.  You  call 
me  morbid,  Margaret,  but  I  call  you  much  more  morbid 
than  I." 

Yet,  though  she  resented  them  at  the  time,  Margaret's 
and  Monica's  continual  demands  for  Pauline  to  be  vigilant 
over  her  impulsiveness  had  an  effect;  and  during  all  the 
month  before  they  were  engaged  she  tried  when  she  was 

190 


SUMMER 

with  Guy  to  acquire  a  little  of  the  attitude  her  sisters 
desired.  Circumstances,  by  keeping  them  for  a  good  deal 
of  the  time  at  the  Rectory,  made  this  easy;  and  Guy, 
exalted  by  the  notion  of  the  formal  troth,  never  made  it 
difficult. 

Pauline  tried  to  recapture  more  of  the  old  interests  of 
life  at  Wychford,  and  she  was  particularly  attentive  to 
Miss  Verney,  going  often  to  see  her  in  the  little  house  at 
the  top  of  the  hill  and  sitting  with  her  in  the  oblong  gar- 
den whenever  the  August  sun  showed  itself. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  sorry  it's  going  to  be  a  protracted  en- 
gagement," said  Miss  Verney.  "They  are  apt  to  place 
a  great  strain  upon  people.  I'm  sure  when  I  read  in 
The  Times  all  about  people's  wills,  though  I  always  feel 
a  trifle  vulgar  and  inquisitive  when  I  do  so,  I  often  say 
to  myself,  'Well,  really,  it  seems  a  pity  that  some  people 
should  have  so  much  more  money  than  is  quite  neces- 
sary.' Only  yesterday  evening  I  read  of  a  gentleman 
called  Somethingheim  who  left  five  hundred  and  seven 
thousand  one  hundred  and  six  pounds  fourteen  shillings 
and  some  odd  pence,  and  really,  I  thought  to  myself  how 
much  nicer  it  would  have  looked  without  the  seven 
thousand  one  hundred  and  six  pounds  fourteen  shillings  and 
odd  pence.  And  really  I  had  quite  a  fanciful  time  imagining 
that  I  received  a  letter  presenting  it  to  me  on  account  of 
some  services  my  father  rendered  at  Sebastopol,  which  at 
the  time  were  overlooked.  Seven  thousand  pounds  I 
thought  I  would  present  to  you  and  Mr.  Guy  Hazlewood, 
if  you  would  allow  me;  a  hundred  pounds  to  the  church; 
six  pounds  I  had  the  idea  of  devoting  to  the  garden;  and 
the  fourteen  shillings  and  sevenpence — I  remember  now  it 
was  sevenpence — I  thought  would  make  such  a  pleasant 
surprise  for  my  servant  Mabel,  who  is  really  a  most  good- 
hearted  girl,  tactful  with  the  cats,  and  not  too  fond  of 
young  men." 

"How  sweet  of  you,  Miss  Verney,  to  think  of  such  a 
nice  present,"  said  Pauline,  who  as  she  watched  the  old 

191 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

maid's  grave  air  of  patronage  began  almost  to  believe 
that  the  money  had  been  given  to  her. 

"No,  indeed,  don't  thank  me  at  all,  for  I  cannot  im- 
agine anything  that  would  give  me  such  true  pleasure. 
Let  me  see.  Seven  thousand  pounds  at  four  per  cent., 
which  I  think  is  as  much  as  you  could  expect  to  get  safely. 
That's  seventy  times  four — two  hundred  and  eighty  pounds 
a  year." 

"And  Guy  has  some  money — one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  or  one  hundred  and  fifteen  pounds,  or  it  may  be 
only  fifty  pounds." 

"Let  us  call  it  a  hundred  pounds,"  said  Miss  Verney. 
"For  it  would  be  more  prudent  not  to  exaggerate.  Three 
hundred  and  eighty  pounds  a  year.  And  I've  no  doubt 
the  Rector  on  his  side  would  be  able  to  manage  twenty 
pounds.  Four  hundred  pounds  a  year.  Surely  a  very  nice 
little  sum  on  which  to  marry.  Oh,  certainly  quite  a 
pleasant  little  sum." 

"Only  the  gentleman  hasn't  given  you  the  seven 
thousand  pounds,"  said  Pauline. 

"No,  exactly,  he  has  not.  That's  just  where  it  is," 
Miss  Verney  agreed. 

"  But  even  if  he  hasn't,"  said  Pauline,  springing  up  and 
kissing  her,  "that  doesn't  prevent  your  being  my  dear 
Miss  Verney;  and  so,  thank  you  seven  times  for  every 
pound  you  were  going  to  give  me." 

"My  dear  child,  it  would  be,  as  I  believe  I  remarked, 
a  pleasure.  I  have  the  greatest  dread  of  long  engage- 
ments. My  own,  you  know,  lasted  five  years;  and  at 
the  end  of  the  time  a  misunderstanding  arose  with  my 
father,  who,  being  a  sailor,  had  a  hasty  temper.  This  very 
misunderstanding  arose  over  money.  I'm  sure  the  person 
who  invented  money  was  a  great  curse  to  the  world,  and 
deserved  to  be  pecked  at  by  that  uncomfortable  eagle 
much  more  than  that  poor  fellow  Prometheus,  of  whom 
I  was  reading  in  a  mythology  book  that  was  given  to  me 
as  a  prize  for  spelling,  and  which  I  came  across  last  night 

192 


SUMMER 

in  an  old  trunk.  My  father  declared  that  William  .  .  . 
His  name;  I  believe  I've  never  told  you  his  name;  his 
name  was  William  Bankes,  spelled  with  an  E.  Now,  my 
own  being  Daisy  after  the  ship  which  my  father  com- 
manded at  the  moment  when  my  poor  mother  .  .  .  when, 
in  fact,  I  was  born — my  own  name  being  Daisy,  I  was  al- 
ways a  little  doubtful  as  to  whether  people  would  laugh 
at  the  conjunction  with  Bankes,  but  being  spelled  with  an 
E,  I  dare  say  it  wouldn't  have  been  uncomfortably  re- 
marked upon.  My  father  said  that  William  had  deceived 
him  about  some  money.  Well,  whatever  it  was,  William 
broke  off  our  engagement;  and  though  all  his  presents 
were  returned  to  him  and  all  his  letters,  the  miniature  fell 
out  of  my  hand  when  I  was  wrapping  it  up.  I  think  I 
must  have  been  a  little  upset  at  the  moment,  for  I  am  not 
usually  careless  with  any  kind  of  ornament.  And  when 
I  picked  it  up  it  was  so  cracked  that  I  could  scarcely 
bring  myself  to  return  it,  feeling  in  a  way  ashamed  of 
my  carelessness  and  also  wishing  to  keep  something  of 
William's  by  me.  I  have  often  blamed  myself  for  doing 
this,  and  no  doubt  if  the  incident  had  occurred  now  when 
I  am  older,  I  should  have  acted  more  properly.  However, 
at  the  time  I  was  only  twenty-four;  so  possibly  there  was 
a  little  excuse  for  what  I  did." 

Miss  Verney  stopped  and  stared  out  of  her  window;  all 
about  the  room  the  cats  were  purring  in  the  sunbeams; 
Pauline  had  a  dozen  plans  racing  through  her  mind  for 
rinding  William  and  bringing  him  back  like  Peter  in  Mrs. 
Gaskell's  book.  She  was  just  half-way  up  the  hill  with 
fluttering  heart,  longing  to  see  Miss  Verney's  joy  at  the 
return  of  her  William  .  .  .  when  tea  tinkled  in  and  the 
dream  vanished. 

When  Pauline  told  Guy  about  Miss  Verney's  seven 
thousand  pounds  he  was  rather  annoyed,  and  said  he  was 
sorry  that  he  and  she  were  already  an  object  of  charity 
in  Wychford. 

"Oh,  Guy,"  she  protested,  "you  mustn't  take  poor 
193 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Miss  Verney  too  seriously;  but  it  was  so  sweet  of  her  to 
want  to  set  us  up  with  an  income." 

"Besides  I  have  got  a  hundred  and  fifty,"  said  Guy. 

"Oh,  Guy  dear,  don't  look  so  cross.  Please  don't  be 
cross  and  dreadfully  in  earnest  about  anything  so  stupid 
as  money." 

"I  feel  everybody  will  be  pitying  you  for  becoming 
engaged  to  a  penniless  pretender  like  me,"  he  sighed. 

"Don't  be  so  stupid,  Guy.  If  they  pity  anybody, 
they'll  pity  you  for  having  a  wife  so  utterly  vague  about 
practical  things  as  I  am.  But  I  won't  be,  Guy,  when 
we're  married." 

"Oh,  my  own,  I  wish  we  were  married  now.  God!  I 
wish,  I  wish  we  were!" 

He  had  clasped  her  to  him,  and  she  drew  away.  Guy 
begged  her  pardon  for  swearing;  but  really  she  had  drawn 
away  because  his  eyes  were  so  bright  and  wild  that  she  was 
momentarily  afraid  of  him. 

August  kept  wet  and  stormy;  but  on  the  nineteenth, 
the  day  before  Guy's  birthday  and  the  vigil  of  their  be- 
trothal, the  sun  came  out  with  the  fierceness  of  late 
Summer.  Pauline  went  with  Margaret  and  Monica  for 
a  walk  in  the  corn-fields,  because  she  and  Guy,  although  it 
was  one  of  their  trysting-days,  had  each  resolved  to  keep 
it  strictly  empty  of  the  other's  company,  so  that  after  a 
kind  of  fast  they  should  meet  on  the  great  day  itself  with 
a  deeper  welcome.  Pauline  made  a  wreath  of  poppies  for 
Margaret,  and  for  Monica  a  wreath  of  cornflowers;  but 
her  sisters  could  find  no  flower  that  became  Pauline  on 
this  vigil,  nor  did  she  mind,  for  to-morrow  was  beckoning 
to  her  across  the  wheat,  and  she  gladly  went  ungarlanded. 

"I  wonder  why  I  feel  as  if  this  were  our  last  walk  to- 
gether," said  Margaret. 

"Oh,  Margaret,  how  can  you  say  a  horrid  thing  like 
that?"  Pauline  exclaimed;  and  to-morrow  drooped  before 
her  in  the  dusty  path. 

"No,  darling,  it's  not  horrid.  But,  oh,  you  don't  know 

194 


SUMMER 

how  much  I  mind  that  in  a  way  the  Rectory  as  it  always 
has  been  will  no  longer  be  the  Rectory." 

Pauline  vowed  she  would  go  home,  not  caring  on  whose 
wheat  she  trampled,  if  Margaret  talked  any  more  like 
that. 

"I  can't  think  why  you  want  to  make  me  sad,"  she  pro- 
tested. "What  difference,  after  all,  will  this  announce- 
ment of  our  engagement  bring?  I  shall  wear  a  ring,  that's 
all!" 

"But  everybody  will  know  you  belong  to  Guy,"  said 
Margaret,  "instead  of  to  all  of  us." 

"Oh,  my  dears,  my  dears,"  Pauline  vowed,  "I  shall 
always  belong  to  you  as  well!  Don't  make  me  feel  un- 
happy." 

"You  don't  really  feel  unhappy,"  said  Monica  in  her 
wise  way,  "because  every  morning  I  can  hear  you  singing 
to  yourself  long  before  you  ought  to  be  awake." 

Then  her  sisters  kissed  her,  and  through  the  golden  corn- 
fields they  walked  silently  home. 

When  Pauline  was  in  bed  that  night  her  mother  lingered 
after  Margaret  and  Monica  had  left  her  room. 

"Are  you  glad,  darling,  you  are  going  to  give  Guy  such 
a  charming  birthday  present  to-morrow?"  she  asked. 

"It's  your  present,"  said  Pauline,  "because  I  couldn't 
possibly  give  myself  unless  you  wanted  me  to.  You 
know  that,  don't  you,  Mother?  You  do  know  that, 
don't  you?" 

"I  want  you  to  be  my  happy  Pauline,"  her  mother 
whispered.  "And  I  think  that  with  Guy  you  will  be  my 
happy  Pauline." 

"Oh,  Mother,  I  shall,  I  shall!  I  love  him  so.  Mother, 
what  about  Father?  He  simply  won't  say  anything  to 
me.  To-day  I  helped  him  with  transplanting,  and  I've 
been  helping  a  lot  lately  .  .  .  with  the  daffodil  bulbs  when 
we  came  back  from  Ladingford,  and  all  sorts  of  things. 
But  he  simply  won't  say  a  word." 

"Francis  is  always  like  that,"  her  mother  replied. 

I9S 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Even  when  he  first  was  in  love  with  me.  Really,  he 
never  proposed  .  .  .  we  somehow  got  married.  I  think 
the  best  thing  will  be  for  you  and  Guy  to  go  up  to  his  room 
after  lunch  to-morrow,  before  he  goes  out  in  the  garden; 
then  you  can  show  him  your  ring." 

"Oh,  Mother,  tell  me  what  ring  it  is  that  Guy  has  found 
for  me." 

"It's  charming  .  .  .  charming  .  .  .  charming,"  said  her 
mother,  enthusiastically. 

"Oh,  I  won't  ask,  but  I'm  longing  to  see  it.  Mother, 
what  do  you  think  it  will  be?  Oh,  but  you  know,  so  I 
mustn't  ask  you  to  guess.  Oh,  I  do  hope  Margaret  and 
Monica  will  like  it." 

"It's  charming  .  .  .  charming  .  .  .  and  now  go  to  sleep." 

Her  mother  kissed  her  good  night,  and  when  she  was 
gone  Pauline  took  from  under  her  pillow  the  crystal  ring. 

"However  nice  the  new  one  is,"  she  said,  "I  shall  al- 
ways love  you  best,  you  secret  ring." 

Then  she  got  out  of  bed  and  took  from  her  desk  the 
manuscript  book  bound  with  a  Siennese  end-paper  of 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses  and  rosy  bowers,  that  was  to 
be  her  birthday  present  to  him. 

"What  poetry  will  he  write  in  you  about  me,  you 
funny  empty  book?"  she  asked,  and  inscribed  it — 

For  Guy  with  all  of  his  Pauline's  love. 

The  book  was  left  open  for  the  roaming  letters  to  dry 
themselves  without  a  smudge,  because  there  was  never 
any  blotting-paper  in  this  desk  that  was  littered  with 
childish  things.  Then  Pauline  went  to  the  window;  but 
a  gusty  wind  of  late  Summer  was  rustling  the  leaves  and 
she  could  not  stay  dreaming  on  the  night  as  in  May  she 
had  dreamed.  There  was  something  faintly  disquieting 
about  this  hollow  wind  which  was  like  an  envoy  threatening 
the  trees  with  the  furious  Winter  to  come,  and  Pauline 
shivered. 

"Summer  will  soon  be  gone,"  she  whispered,  "but 

196 


SUMMER 

nowadays  it  doesn't  matter,  because  all  days  will  be 
happy." 

On  this  thought  she  fell  asleep,  and  woke  to  a  sunny 
morning,  though  the  sky  was  a  turbid  blue  across  which 
swollen  clouds  were  steadily  moving.  She  lay  watchful, 
wondering  if  this  quiet  time  of  six  o'clock  would  hold  the 
best  of  Guy's  birthday  and  if  by  eight  o'clock  the  sky 
would  not  be  quite  gray.  It  was  a  pity  she  and  Guy  had 
not  arranged  to  meet  early,  so  that  before  the  day  was 
spoiled  they  should  have  possessed  themselves  of  its 
prime.  Pauline  could  no  longer  stay  in  bed  with  this 
sunlight,  the  lucid  shadows  of  which,  caught  from  the 
wistaria  leaves,  were  flickering  all  about  the  room.  She 
must  go  to  the  window  and  salute  his  birthday.  Suddenly 
she  recalled  something  Guy  had  once  said  of  how  he  pic- 
tured her  always  moving  round  her  room  in  the  morning 
like  a  small  white  cloud.  Blushful  at  the  intimacy  of  the 
thought,  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass. 

"You're  his!  You're  his!"  she  whispered  to  her  image. 
"Are  you  a  white  goose,  as  Margaret  said  you  were?  Or 
are  you  the  least  bit  like  a  cloud  ?" 

Guy  came  and  knelt  by  her  in  church  that  morning, 
and  she  took  his  action  as  the  sign  he  offered  to  the  world 
of  holding  her  now  openly.  In  the  great  church  they 
were  kneeling;  rose-fired  both  of  them  by  the  crimson 
gowns  of  the  high  saints  along  the  clerestory;  and  then 
Guy  slipped  upon  her  finger  the  new  ring  he  had  bought 
for  their  engagement,  a  pink  topaz  set  in  the  old  fashion, 
which  burned  there  like  the  heart  of  the  rosy  fire  in  which 
they  knelt  suffused. 

Breakfast  was  to  be  in  the  garden,  as  all  Rectory  birth- 
days were  except  Monica's, which  fell  in  January;  and  since 
the  day  had  ripened  to  a  kind  of  sweet  sultriness  as  of  a 
pear  that  has  hung  too  long  upon  a  wall,  it  was  grateful 
to  sit  in  the  shade  of  the  weeping-willow  by  the  side  of 
the  lily-pond.  To  each  floating  cup,  tawny  or  damasked, 
white  or  deepest  cramoisy,  the  Rector  called  their  atten- 

197 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

tion.  Nymphaeas  they  were  to  him,  fountain  divinities 
that  one  after  the  other  he  flattered  with  courteous  praise. 
When  Guy  had  been  given  all  his  presents  Pauline  saw 
her  father  put  a  hand  in  his  coat  and  pull  out  a  small  book. 

"Father  has  remembered  Guy's  birthday!"  she  cried, 
clapping  her  hands.  "Now  I  do  call  that  wonderful. 
Francis,  you're  wonderful.  You're  really  wonderful!" 

"Pauline,  Pauline,  don't  get  too  excited,"  her  mother 
begged.  "And  please  don't  call  your  father  Francis  in 
the  garden." 

"  Propertius,"  Guy  murmured,  shyly  opening  the  book; 
but  when  he  was  going  to  say  something  about  that 
Roman  lover  to  the  Rector,  the  Rector  had  vanished. 

After  breakfast  Pauline  and  Guy  walked  in  the  inner 
wall-garden,  that  was  now  brilliant  with  ten  thousand 
deep-throated  gladioli. 

"Pauline,"  said  Guy,  "this  morning  I  learned  Milton's 
sonnet  on  his  twenty-third  birthday,  and  I  feel  rather 
worried.  Listen: 

"How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 
Stol'n  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth  year! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 
But  my  late  Spring  no  bud  or  blossom  shew'th. 

Well,  now,  if  Milton  felt  like  that,"  he  sighed,  "what 
about  me?  Pauline,  tell  me  again  that  you  believe  in 
me." 

"Of  course  I  believe  in  you,"  she  vowed. 

"And  I  am  right  to  stay  here?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Oh,  Guy,  of  course,  of  course." 

"You  see,  I  shall  be  writing  to  my  father  to-night  to 
tell  him  of  our  engagement,  and  I  don't  want  to  feel  you 
have  the  least  doubt  of  me.  You  haven't,  have  you? 
Never?  Never?  There  must  never  have  been  the  slight- 
est doubt,  or  I  shall  doubt." 

"Dearest  Guy,"  she  said,  "if  you  changed  anything  for 
me,  our  love  wouldn't  be  the  best  thing  for  you,  and  I 

198 


SUMMER 

only  want  my  love  to  be  my  love,  if  it  is  the  love  you 
want,  Guy.  I'm  not  clever,  you  know.  I'm  really  stupid, 
but  I  can  love.  Oh,  I  can  love  you  more  than  any  one, 
I  think.  I  know,  I  know  I  can.  Guy,  I  do  adore  you. 
But  if  I  felt  you  were  thinking  you  ought  to  go  away  on 
account  of  me,  I  would  have  to  give  you  up." 

"You  couldn't  give  me  up,"  he  proclaimed,  holding  her 
straight  before  him  with  looks  that  were  hungry  for  one 
word  or  one  gesture  that  could  help  him  to  tell  her  what 
he  wanted  to  say. 

"Does  my  love  worry  you?"  she  whispered,  faint  with 
all  the  responsibility  she  felt  for  the  future  of  this  lover 
of  hers. 

"Pauline,  my  love  for  you  is  my  life." 

But  quickly  they  glided  away  from  passion  to  discuss 
projects  of  simple  happiness;  and  walking  together  a  long 
while  under  the  trees  beyond  the  wall-garden,  they  were 
surprised  to  hear  the  gong  sound  for  lunch  before  they 
had  finished  the  decoration  of  Flashers  Mead  as  it  should 
be  for  their  wedding-tide.  Back  in  the  sunlight,  they 
were  dazzled  by  the  savage  color  of  the  gladioli  in 
the  hot  August  noon,  and  found  them  rather  gaudy  after 
the  fronded  half-light  where  nothing  had  disturbed  the 
outspread  vision  of  a  future  triumphantly  attainable. 

After  lunch  her  mother  called  Pauline  aside  and  told 
her  that  now  was  the  moment  to  impress  the  Rector  with 
the  fact  of  her  engagement.  The  tradition  was  that  her 
father  went  up  to  his  library  for  half  an  hour  every  day  in 
order  to  rest  after  lunch  before  he  sallied  out  into  the  gar- 
den or  the  parish.  As  usual,  his  rest  was  consisting  of 
standing  on  a  chair  and  dragging  down  old  numbers  of 
The  Botanical  Magazine  or  heavy  volumes  of  The  Garden 
in  order  to  search  out  a  fact  in  connection  with  some 
plant.  When  Pauline  and  Guy  presented  themselves  the 
Rector  gave  them  a  cordial  invitation  to  enter,  and 
Pauline  fancied  that  he  was  being  quite  exceptionally 
kindly  in  his  tone  towards  Guy. 

199 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Well,  and  what  can  I  do  for  you  two?"  he  asked,  as 
he  lit  his  long  clay  pipe  and  sat  upright  in  his  old  leather 
arm-chair  to  regard  them. 

"  Father,"  said  Pauline,  coming  straight  to  the  heart  of 
her  subject,  "have  you  seen  my  engagement  ring?" 

She  offered  him  the  pink  topaz  to  admire,  and  he  bowed 
his  head,  conveying  that  faint  mockery  with  which  he 
treated  anything  that  was  not  a  flower. 

"Very  fine.    Very  fine,  my  dear." 

"Well,  aren't  you  going  to  congratulate  me?"  Pauline 
asked. 

"On  what?" 

"Oh,  Father,  you  are  naughty.    On  Guy,  of  course." 

"Bless  my  heart,"  said  the  Rector.  "And  on  what 
am  I  to  congratulate  him?" 

"On  me,  of  course,"  said  Pauline. 

"Now  I  wonder  if  I  can  honestly  do  that?"  said  the 
Rector,  very  seriously. 

"Father,  you  do  realize,  don't  you,  because  you  are 
being  so  naughty,  but  you  do  realize  that  from  to-day  we 
are  really  engaged  ?" 

"Only  from  to-day?"  the  Rector  asked,  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye. 

"Well,  of  course,"  Pauline  explained,  "we've  been  in 
love  for  very  nearly  a  year." 

"And  when  have  you  decided  to  get  married?" 

Pauline  looked  at  Guy. 

"We  thought  in  about  two  years,  sir,"  said  Guy. 
"That  is,  of  course,  as  soon  as  I've  published  my  first 
book.  Perhaps  in  a  year,  really." 

"Just  when  you  find  it  convenient,  in  fact,"  said  the 
Rector,  still  twinkling. 

"Well,  Father,"  Pauline  interrupted,  "have  we  got  your 
permission?  Because  that's  what  we've  come  up  to  ask." 

"You  surprise  me,"  said  the  Rector,  starting  back  with 
an  exaggerated  look  of  astonishment  such  as  one  might 
use  with  children. 

200 


SUMMER 

"Father,  if  you  won't  be  serious  about  it,  I  shall  be 
very  much  hurt." 

"I  am  very  serious  indeed  about  it/'  said  the  Rector. 
"And  supposing  I  said  I  wouldn't  hear  of  any  such  thing 
as  an  engagement  between  you  two  young  creatures,  what 
would  you  say  then?" 

"Oh,  I  should  never  forgive  you,"  Pauline  declared. 
"  Besides,  we're  not  young.  Guy  is  twenty-three." 

"Now  I  thought  he  was  at  least  fifty,"  said  the  Rector. 

"Father,  we  shall  have  to  go  away  if  you  won't  be 
serious.  Mother  told  us  to  explain  to  you,  and  I  think 
it's  really  unkind  of  you  to  laugh  at  us." 

The. Rector  rose  and  knocked  his  pipe  out. 

"I  must  finish  off  the  perennials.  Well,  well,  Pauline, 
my  dear,  you're  twenty-one.  .  .  ." 

Pauline  would  have  liked  to  let  him  go  on  thinking 
she  was  of  age,  but  she  could  not  on  this  solemn  occasion, 
and  so  she  told  him  that  she  was  still  only  twenty. 

"Ah,  that  makes  a  difference,"  said  the  Rector,  pretend- 
ing to  look  very  fierce.  And  when  Pauline's  face  fell  he 
added,  with  a  chuckle,  "of  one  year.  Well,  well,  I  fancy 
you've  both  arranged  everything.  What  is  there  left  for 
me  to  say?  You  mustn't  forget  to  show  Guy  those 
Nerines.  God  bless  you,  pretty  babies.  Be  happy." 

Then  the  Rector  walked  quickly  away  and  left  them 
together  in  his  dusty  library,  where  the  botanical  folios 
and  quartos  displaying  tropic  blooms  sprawled  open  about 
the  floor,  where  along  the  mantelpiece  the  rhizomes  of 
Oncocyclus  irises  were  being  dried;  and  where  seeds  were 
strewn  plenteously  on  his  desk,  rattling  among  the  papers 
whenever  the  wind  blew. 

"Guy,  we  are  really  engaged." 

"Pauline,  Pauline!" 

In  the  dusty  room  among  the  ghosts  of  dead  seasons 
and  the  moldering  store  amassed  by  the  suns  of  other 
years,  they  stood  locked,  heart  to  heart. 

Before  Guy  went  home  that  night,  when  they  were 

14  201 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

lingering  in  the  hall,  he  told  Pauline  that  the  next  thing 
to  be  done  was  to  write  to  his  own  father. 

"Guy,  do  you  think  he'll  like  me?" 

"Why,  how  could  he  help  it?  But  he  may  grumble  at 
the  idea  of  my  being  engaged." 

"When  do  you  think  he'll  write?" 

"I  expect  he'll  come  down  here  to  see  me.  In  the 
Spring  he  wrote  and  said  he  would." 

"Guy,  I'm  sure  he's  going  to  make  it  difficult  for  you." 

Guy  shook  his  head. 

"I  know  how  to  manage  him,"  he  proclaimed,  con- 
fidently. 

Then  he  opened  the  door;  along  the  drive  the  wind 
moaned,  getting  up  for  a  gusty  Bartlemy-tide. 

Pauline  stood  in  the  lighted  doorway,  letting  the  light 
shine  upon  him  until  he  was  lost  in  the  shadows  of  the  tall 
trees,  sending,  as  he  vanished,  one  more  kiss  down  the 
wind  to  her. 

"Are  you  happy  to-night?"  asked  her  mother,  bending 
over  Pauline  when  she  was  in  bed. 

"Oh,  Mother  darling,  I'm  so  happy  that  I  can't  tell 
you  how  happy  I  am." 

In  the  candle-light  her  new  ring  sparkled;  and  when  her 
mother  was  gone  she  put  beside  it  the  crystal  ring,  and 
it  seemed  to  sparkle  still  more.  Pauline  was  in  such  a 
mood  of  tenderness  to  everything  that  she  petted  even  her 
pillow  with  a  kind  of  affection,  and  she  had  the  content- 
ment of  knowing  she  was  going  to  meet  sleep  as  if  it  were 
a  great  benignant  figure  that  was  bending  to  hear  her 
tale  of  happy  love. 


ANOTHER    AUTUMN 


SEPTEMBER 

UY  became  much  occupied  with  the  best  way  of 
V_J  breaking  to  his  father  the  news  of  his  engagement. 
He  wished  it  were  his  marriage  of  which  he  had  to  in- 
form him;  for  there  was  about  marriage  such  a  beautiful 
finality  of  spilled  milk  that  the  briefest  letter  would  have 
settled  everything.  If  now  he  wrote  to  announce  an 
engagement,  he  ran  the  risk  of  his  father's  refusal  to 
come  and  pay  him  that  visit  on  which  he  was  building 
such  hopes  from  the  combined  effect  of  Pauline  and 
Plashers  Mead  in  restoring  to  the  schoolmaster  the 
bright  mirror  of  his  own  youth.  It  would  scarcely  be  fair 
to  the  Greys  to  introduce  him  while  he  was  still  ignorant 
of  the  relation  in  which  he  was  supposed  to  stand  to 
them,  for  they  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  regard  him 
as  a  man  to  be  humored  up  to  such  a  point.  After  all, 
it  was  not  as  if  he  in  his  heart  looked  to  his  father  for 
practical  help;  in  reality  he  knew  already  that  the  en- 
gagement would  meet  with  his  opposition,  notwithstand- 
ing Pauline  .  .  .  notwithstanding  Plashers  Mead.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  better  to  write  and  tell  him  about  it; 
if  he  came  it  would  obviate  an  awkward  explanation  and 
there  could  be  no  question  of  false  pretenses;  if  he  de- 
clined to  come,  no  doubt  he  would  write  such  a  letter  as 
would  justify  his  son  in  holding  him  up  to  the  Greys  as 
naturally  intractable.  Indeed,  if  it  were  not  that  he 
knew  how  sensitive  Pauline  was  to  the  paternal  bene- 
diction, he  would  have  made  no  attempt  to  present  him 
at  all. 

205 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

His  father  kept  him  waiting  over  a  week  before  he  re- 
plied to  the  announcement  Guy  had  ultimately  decided 
to  send  him;  and  when  it  came,  the  letter  did  not  promise 
the  most  favorable  prospect. 

Fox  HALL,  GALTON,  HANTS, 

September  1st. 

DEAR  GUY, — I  have  taken  a  few  days  to  think  over  the 
extraordinary  news  you  have  seen  fit  to  communicate.  I  hope 
I  am  not  so  far  removed  from  sympathy  with  your  aspirations 
as  not  to  be  able  to  understand  almost  anything  you  might  have 
to  tell  me  about  yourself.  But  this  I  confess  defeats  my  best 
intentions,  setting  as  it  does  a  crown  on  all  the  rest  of  your  acts 
of  folly.  I  tried  to  believe  that  your  desire  to  write  poetry  was 
merely  a  passing  whim.  I  tried  to  think  that  your  tenancy  of 
this  house  was  not  the  behavior  of  a  thoughtless  and  wilful  young 
man.  I  was  most  anxious,  as  I  clearly  showed  (i)  by  my  gift 
of  £150,  (ii)  by  my  offer  of  a  post  at  Fox  Hall,  to  put  myself  in 
accord  with  your  ambition;  and  now  you  write  and  tell  me  after 
a  year's  unprofitable  idling  that  you  are  engaged  to  be  married! 
I  admit  as  a  minute  point  in  your  favor  you  do  not  suggest  that 
I  should  help  you  to  tie  yourself  for  life  to  the  fancy  of  a  young 
man  of  just  twenty-three.  Little  did  I  think  when  I  wrote  to 
wish  you  many  happy  returns  of  the  2Oth  of  August,  although 
you  had  previously  disappointed  me  by  your  refusal  to  help  me 
out  of  a  nasty  difficulty,  little  did  I  think  that  my  answer  was 
going  to  be  this  piece  of  reckless  folly.  May  I  ask  what  her 
parents  are  thinking  of,  or  are  they  so  blinded  by  your  charms 
as  to  be  willing  to  allow  this  daughter  of  theirs  to  wait  until  the 
income  you  make  by  selling  your  poetry  enables  you  to  get 
married?  I  gathered  from  your  description  of  Mr.  Grey  that 
he  was  an  extremely  unpractical  man;  and  his  attitude  tow- 
ards your  engagement  certainly  bears  me  out.  I  suppose  I 
shall  presently  get  a  post-card  to  say  that  you  are  married  on 
your  income  of  £150,  which,  by  the  way,  in  the  present  state  of 
affairs  is  very  likely  soon  to  be  less.  You  invite  me  to  come  and 
stay  with  you  before  term  begins,  in  order  to  meet  the  young 
lady  to  whom  with  extremely  bad  taste  you  jocularly  allude  as 
my  "future  daughter-in-law."  Well,  I  accept  your  invitation, 
but  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  give  myself  the  unpleasant  task  of 

206 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

explaining  to  your  "future  father-in-law,"  as  I  suppose  you 
would  not  blush  to  call  him,  what  an  utterly  unreliable  fellow 
you  are  and  how  in  every  way  you  have  disappointed 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  HAZLEWOOD. 

I  shall  arrive  at  two-thirty  on  the  fifth  (next  Thursday). 
I  wish  I  could  say  I  was  looking  forward  to  seeing  this  insane 
house  of  yours. 

There  was  something  in  the  taste  of  marmalade  very 
appropriate  to  an  unpleasant  letter,  and  Guy  wondered 
how  many  of  them  he  had  read  at  breakfast  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  the  bitter  savor  and  the  sound  of  crackling 
toast.  He  also  wondered  what  was  the  real  reason  of  his 
father's  coming.  Was  it  curiosity,  or  the  prospect  of 
lecturing  a  certain  number  of  people  gathered  together 
to  hear  his  opinion?  Was  it  with  the  hope  of  dissuasion, 
or  was  it  merely  because  he  had  settled  to  come  on  the 
fifth  of  September,  and  could  not  bear  to  thwart  that 
finicking  passion  of  his  for  knowing  what  he  was  going 
to  do  a  month  beforehand? 

Anyhow,  whatever  the  reason,  he  was  coming,  and  the 
next  problem  was  to  furnish  for  him  a  bedroom.  How 
much  had  he  in  the  bank?  Four  pounds  sixteen  shillings, 
and  there  was  a  blank  counterfoil  which  Guy  vaguely 
thought  represented  a  cheque  for  two  pounds.  Of  course 
Pauline's  ring  had  lowered  his  balance  rather  prematurely 
this  quarter;  he  ought  to  be  very  economical  during  the 
next  one,  and,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  next  quarter  would 
have  to  provide  fuel.  Two  pounds  sixteen  shillings  was  not 
much  to  spend  on  furnishing  a  bedroom,  even  if  the  puny 
balance  were  not  needed  for  the  current  expenses  of  the 
three  weeks  to  Michaelmas.  Could  he  borrow  some  bed- 
room furniture  from  the  Rectory?  No  doubt  Mrs.  Grey 
would  be  amused  and  delighted  to  lend  all  he  wanted,  but 
it  seemed  rather  an  ignominious  way  of  celebrating  his 
engagement,  Could  he  sleep  on  the  chest  in  the  halP 

207 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

And  as  it  wabbled  to  his  touch  he  decided  that  not  only 
could  he  not  sleep  on  it  nor  in  it,  but  that  it  would  not 
even  serve  as  a  receptacle  for  his  clothes. 

"Miss  Peasey,"  he  said,  when  the  housekeeper  came  in 
to  see  if  he  had  finished  breakfast,  "my  father  is  coming 
to  stay  here  on  Thursday." 

Miss  Peasey  smiled  encouragingly  with  the  strained  look 
in  her  eyes  that  always  showed  when  she  was  hoping  to 
find  out  from  his  next  sentence  what  he  had  told  her. 
Guy  shouted  his  information  over  again,  when,  of  course, 
Miss  Peasey  pretended  she  had  heard  him  all  the  time. 

"Well,  that  will  make  quite  a  little  variety,  I'm  sure." 

"Where  will  he  sleep?"  Guy  asked. 

Miss  Peasey  jumped  and  said  that  there,  she'd  never 
thought  of  that. 

"Well,  think  about  it  now,  Miss  Peasey." 

Miss  Peasey  thought  hard,  but  unfruitfully. 

"Could  you  borrow  a  bed  in  the  town?"  Guy  shouted. 

"Well,  wouldn't  it  seem  rather  funny?  Why  don't 
you  send  in  to  Oxford  and  buy  a  bed,  Mr.  Hazlewood?" 

Her  pathetic  trust  in  the  strength  of  his  financial  re- 
sources, which  Guy  usually  tried  to  encourage,  was  now 
rather  irritating. 

"It  seems  hardly  worth  while  to  buy  a  bed  for  two  or 
three  days,"  he  objected. 

"Which  reminds  me,"  said  Miss  Peasey,  "that  you'll 
really  have  to  give  that  Bob  another  good  thrashing,  for 
he's  eaten  all  the  day's  butter." 

"Well,  we  can  buy  more  butter  in  Wychford,  but  we 
can't  get  a  bed,"  Guy  laughed. 

"Oh,  he  didn't  touch  the  bread,"  said  Miss  Peasey. 
"Trust  him  for  that.  I  never  knew  a  large  dog  so  dainty 
before." 

Guy  decided  to  postpone  the  subject  of  the  bed  and 
try  Miss  Peasey  more  personally. 

" Could  you  spare  your  chest  of  drawers?"  he  asked, 
at  top  voice. 

208 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

Miss  Peasey,  however,  did  not  answer,  and  from  her 
complete  indifference  to  his  question  Guy  knew  that  she 
did  not  like  the  idea  of  such  a  loan.  It  looked  as  if  he 
would  be  compelled  to  borrow  the  furniture  from  the 
Rectory;  and  then  he  thought  how,  after  all,  it  would  be 
a  doubly  good  plan  to  do  so,  inasmuch  as  it  would  partially 
involve  his  father  in  the  obligations  of  a  guest.  More- 
over, it  could  scarcely  fail  to  be  a  slight  reproach  to  him 
that  his  son  should  have  to  borrow  bedroom  furniture 
from  the  family  of  his  betrothed. 

Pauline  was,  of  course,  delighted  at  the  idea  of  lending 
the  furniture,  and  she  and  Guy  had  the  greatest  fun  to- 
gether in  amassing  enough  to  equip  what  would  really 
be  a  very  charming  spare  room.  Deaf-and-dumb  Graves 
was  called  in;  and  Birdwood  helped  also,  under  protest 
at  the  hindrance  to  his  work,  but  at  the  same  time  reveling, 
if  Birdwood  could  be  said  to  revel,  in  the  diversion.  Mrs. 
Grey  presided  over  the  arrangement  and  fell  so  much  in 
love  with  the  new  bedroom  that  she  pillaged  the  Rectory 
much  more  ruthlessly  than  Pauline,  and  in  the  end  they 
all  decided  that  Guy's  father  would  have  the  most  at- 
tractive bedroom  in  Wychford.  Guy,  with  so  much 
preparation  on  hand,  had  no  time  to  worry  about  the 
conduct  of  his  father's  visit,  and  after  lunch  on  Thursday 
he  got  into  the  trap  beside  Godbold  and  drove  off  equably 
enough  to  meet  the  train  at  Shipcot. 

Mr.  Hazlewood  was  in  appearance  a  dried-up  likeness 
of  his  son,  and  Guy  often  wondered  if  he  would  ever 
present  to  the  world  this  desiccated  exterior.  Yet,  after 
all,  it  was  not  so  much  his  father's  features  as  his  cold 
eyes  that  gave  this  effect  of  a  chilly  force;  he  himself  had 
his  mother's  eyes,  and,  thinking  of  hers  burning  darkly 
from  the  glooms  of  her  sick-bed,  Guy  fancied  that  he 
would  never  wither  to  quite  the  inanimate  and  discourag- 
ing personality  on  the  platform  in  front  of  him. 

"The  train's  quite  punctual,"  said  Mr.  Hazlewood  in 
rather  an  aggrieved  tone  of  voice,  such  as  he  might  have 

209 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

adopted  if  he  had  been  shown  a  correct  Latin  exercise  by 
a  boy  whom  he  was  anxious  to  reprove. 

"Yes,  this  train  is  usually  pretty  punctual,"  Guy  an- 
swered, and  for  a  minute  or  two  after  a  self-conscious 
hand-shake  they  talked  about  trains,  each,  as  it  seemed, 
trying  to  throw  upon  the  other  the  responsibility  of  any 
conversation  that  might  have  promoted  their  ease. 

Guy  introduced  his  father  to  Godbold,  who  greeted  him 
with  a  kind  of  congratulatory  respect  and  assumed  tow- 
ards Guy  a  manner  that  gave  the  impression  of  sharing 
with  Mr.  Hazlewood  in  his  paternity. 

"Hope  you're  going  to  pay  us  a  good  long  visit,"  said 
Godbold,  hospitably,  flicking  the  pony. 

Mr.  Hazlewood,  who,  squashed  as  he  was  between  Guy 
and  fat  Godbold,  looked  more  sapless  than  ever,  said  he 
proposed  to  stay  until  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

"Then  you  won't  see  us  play  Shipcot  on  Saturday,  the 
last  match  of  the  season?"  said  Godbold  in  disappointed 
benevolence. 

"No,  I  sha'n't,  I'm  afraid.  You  see,  my  son  is  not  so 
busy  as  I  am." 

"Ah,  but  he's  been  very  busy  lately.  Isn't  that  right, 
Mr.  Hazlewood?"  Godbold  chuckled,  with  a  wink  across 
at  Guy.  "Well,  we've  all  been  expecting  it  for  some  time 
past  and  he  has  our  good  wishes.  That  he  has.  As 
sweetly  pretty  a  young  lady  as  you'll  see  in  a  month  of 
Sundays." 

His  father  shrank  perceptibly  from  a  dominical  pre- 
vision so  foreign  to  his  nature,  and  Guy  changed  the 
conversation  by  pointing  out  features  in  the  landscape. 

"Extraordinarily  inspiring  sort  of  country,"  he  affirmed. 

"So  I  should  imagine,"  said  his  father.  "Though  pre- 
cisely what  that  epithet  implies  I  don't  quite  know." 

Guy  was  determined  not  to  be  put  out  of  humor,  and, 
surrendering  the  epithet  at  once,  he  substituted  "brac- 
ing." 

"So  is  Hampshire,"  his  father  snapped, 
310 


ANOTHER  AUTUMN 

"I  hope  Wilkinson's  successor  has  turned  out  well," 
Guy  ventured  in  the  hope  that  such  a  direct  challenge 
would  force  a  discharge  of  grievances.  Surprisingly,  how- 
ever, his  father  talked  without  covert  reproaches  of  the 
successor's  virtues,  of  the  field-club  he  had  started,  of 
his  popularity  with  the  boys,  and  of  the  luck  which  had 
brought  him  along  at  such  short  notice.  At  any  rate, 
thought  Guy,  he  could  not  be  blamed  for  having  caused 
any  inconvenience  to  the  school  by  his  refusal  to  take  up 
office  at  Fox  Hall.  The  constraint  of  the  long  drive  came 
to  an  end  with  the  first  view  of  Flashers  Mead,  at  which 
his  father  gazed  with  the  sort  of  mixture  of  resentment, 
interest,  and  alarm  he  might  have  displayed  at  the  ap- 
proach of  a  novel  insect. 

"It  looks  as  if  it  would  be  very  damp,"  was  his  only 
comment. 

Here  Godbold,  who  had  perhaps  for  some  time  been 
conscious  that  all  was  not  perfectly  well  between  his 
passengers,  interposed  with  a  defense  of  Flashers  Mead. 

"Lot  of  people  seeing  it  from  here  think  it's  damp. 
But  it  isn't.  In  fact,  it's  the  driest  house  in  Wychford. 
And  do  you  know  for  why,  sir?  Because  it's  so  near 
running  water.  Running  water  keeps  off  the  damp. 
Doctor  Brydone  told  me  that.  'Running  water,'  he  says 
to  me,  'keeps  off  the  damp.'  Those  were  his  words." 

Mr.  Hazlewood  eyed  Godbold  distastefully — that  is,  so 
far  as  without  turning  his  head  he  could  eye  him  at  all. 
Then  the  trap  pulled  up  by  the  gate  of  Flashers  Mead, 
Guy  took  his  father's  bag,  and  they  passed  in  together. 
The  noise  of  wheels  died  away,  and  here  in  the  sound 
of  the  swift  Greenrush  Guy  felt  that  hostility  must  surely 
be  renounced  at  the  balm  of  this  September  afternoon 
shedding  serene  sunlight.  He  began  to  display  his  pos- 
sessions with  the  confidence  their  beauty  always  gave 
him. 

"Pretty  good  old  apple-trees,  eh?  Ribston  pippins 
nearly  all  of  them.  The  blossom  was  rather  spoiled  by 

211 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

that  wet  May,  but  there's  not  such  a  bad  crop  considering. 
I  like  this  salmon-colored  phlox.  General  something  or 
other  beginning  with  an  H  it's  called.  Mr.  Grey  gave 
me  a  good  deal.  The  garden,  of  course,  was  full  of  vege- 
tables when  I  had  it  first.  I  must  send  you  some  clumps 
of  this  phlox  to  Galton.  Of  course,  I  got  rid  of  the 
vegetables." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  agreed  Mr.  Hazlewood,  dryly. 

" Doesn't  the  house  look  jolly  from  here?  It's  pretty 
old,  you  know.  About  1590,  I  believe.  It's  a  wonderful 
place,  isn't  it?  Hullo!  there's  my  housekeeper.  Miss 
Peasey,  here's  my  father.  She's  very  deaf,  so  you'll  have 
to  shout." 

Mr.  Hazlewood,  who  never  shouted  even  at  the  naugh- 
tiest boy  in  his  school,  shuddered  faintly  at  his  son's  in- 
vitation and  bowed  to  Miss  Peasey  with  a  formality  of 
disapproval  that  seemed  to  include  her  in  the  condemna- 
tion of  all  he  beheld. 

"Quite  a  resemblance,  I'm  sure,"  Miss  Peasey  archly 
declared.  "Tea  will  be  ready  at  four  o'clock,  and  Mr. 
Hazlewood  senior's  room  is  all  in  order  for  him."  Then 
she  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen. 

"A  little  empty,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Guy,  as  his  father 
looked  round  the  hall. 
'Is  that  water  I  hear?" 

'Yes,  the  river  washes  the  back  of  the  house." 
'And  this  place  isn't  damp?" 
'Not  a  bit,"  Guy  declared,  positively. 
'Well,  it  smells  of  bronchitis  and  double  pneumonia." 

Guy  showed  his  father  the  dining-room. 

"I've  got  it  rather  jolly,  I  think,"  he  ventured. 

"Yes,  my  candlesticks  and  chairs,  that  your  mother 
lent  you  for  your  rooms  at  Balliol,  look  very  well,"  his 
father  agreed. 

Guy  led  the  way  to  the  spare  bedroom. 

"No  wonder  you  spent  all  your  money,"  Mr.  Hazle- 
wood commented,  surveying  the  four-post  bed  and  the 

212 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

Jacobean  furniture.  "How  on  earth  did  you  mm  age  to 
afford  all  this  luxury?" 

"Oh,  I  picked  it  up  somehow,"  said  Guy,  lightly.  He 
had  decided,  on  second  thought,  not  to  reveal  the  secret 
of  the  Rectory's  loan. 

When  his  father  had  rid  himself  of  the  dust  from  his 
journey,  Guy  introduced  him  proudly  to  his  own  room. 

"Well,  this  is  certainly  quite  a  pleasant  place,"  Mr. 
Hazlewood  admitted.  "If  not  too  draughty  with  those 
two  windows." 

"You  must  scratch  a  motto  on  the  pane  with  the 
diamond  pencil,"  Guy  suggested. 

"My  motto  is  hard  work." 

"Well,  write  that.  Or  at  any  rate  put  your  initials 
and  the  date." 

His  father  took  up  the  pencil  with  that  expression  of 
superiority  which  Guy  most  hated,  and  scratched  his 
name  rather  awkwardly  on  the  glass. 

"I  hope  people  won't  suppose  that  is  my  ordinary 
hand,"  he  said,  grimly  regarding  the  "John  Hazlewood"  of 
his  inscription.  During  tea  Guy  wondered  when  he 
ought  to  introduce  the  subject  of  Pauline.  Beyond  God- 
bold's  unfortunate  allusion  on  the  drive,  nothing  had 
been  said  by  either  of  them;  and  Flashers  Mead  had  not 
as  yet  effected  that  enchantment  of  his  father's  senses 
which  would  seem  to  proclaim  the  moment  as  propitious. 
How  remote  they  were  from  one  another,  sitting  here  at 
tea!  Really  his  father  had  not  accorded  him  any  saluta- 
tion more  cordial  than  the  coldly  absent-minded  "good 
dog"  he  had  just  given  to  Bob.  Yet  there  must  be  points 
of  contact  in  their  characters.  There  must  be  in  himself 
something  of  his  father.  He  could  not  so  ridiculously 
resemble  him  and  yet  have  absolutely  nothing  mentally 
in  common.  Perhaps  his  father  did  himself  an  injustice 
by  his  manner,  for  after  all  he  had  presented  him  with 
that  £150.  If  he  could  only  probe  by  some  remark  a 
generous  impulse,  Guy  felt  that  in  himself  the  affection 

213 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

of  wonted  intercourse  over  many  years  would  respond 
immediately  with  a  warmth  of  love.  His  father  had 
cared  greatly  for  his  mother;  and  could  not  the  love  they 
had  both  known  supply  them  with  the  point  of  sympa- 
thetic contact  that  would  enable  them  to  understand  the 
ulterior  intention  of  their  two  diverging  lives  ? 

"  It  was  awfully  good  of  you,  Father,  to  come  down  and 
stay  here,"  said  Guy.  "I've  really  been  looking  forward 
to  showing  you  the  house.  I  think  perhaps  you  under- 
stand now  how  much  I've  wanted  to  be  here?" 

Guy  waited  anxiously. 

"I've  never  thought  you  haven't  wanted  to  be  here," 
his  father  replied.  "  But  between  what  we  want  and  what 
we  own  there  is  a  wide  gap." 

Oh,  why  was  a  use  to  be  made  of  these  out-of-date 
weapons?  Why  could  not  one  or  two  of  his  prejudices  be 
surrendered,  so  that  there  were  a  chance  of  meeting  him 
half-way  ? 

"But  sometimes,"  said  Guy,  desperately,  "inclination 
and  duty  coincide." 

"Very  rarely,  I'm  afraid,  in  this  world." 

"  Do  they  in  the  next,  then  ?"  asked  Guy,  a  little  harshly, 
hating  the  conventionality  of  the  answer  that  seemed  to 
crystallize  the  intellectual  dishonesty  of  a  dominie's  exist- 
ence. He  knew  that  the  next  world  was  merely  an  arid 
postulate  which  served  for  a  few  theorems  and  problems 
of  education,  and  that  duty  and  desire  must  only  be  kept 
apart  on  account  of  the  hierarchical  formulae  of  his  craft. 
He  must  eternally  appear  as  half  inhuman  as  all  the  rest  of 
the  Pharisees:  priests,  lawyers,  and  schoolmasters,  they 
were  all  alike  in  relying  for  their  livelihood  upon  a  ca- 
pacity for  depreciating  human  nature. 

"I  was  merely  using  a  figure  of  speech,"  said  his 
father. 

Exactly,  thought  Guy,  and  how  was  he  ever  to  justify 
his  love  for  Pauline  to  a  man  whose  opinions  could  never 
be  expressed  except  in  figures  of  speech  ?  He  made  up  his 

214 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

mind  to  postpone  the  visit  to  the  Rectory  until  to-morrow. 
Evidently  it  was  not  going  to  be  made  even  moderately 
easy  to  broach  the  subject  of  Pauline. 

"  I  expect  you'd  like  to  have  a  look  at  some  of  my  work," 
he  suggested. 

"Very  much,"  said  Mr.  Hazlewood;  and  in  a  moment 
with  his  dry  assent  he  had  reduced  all  his  son's  achieve- 
ment to  the  level  of  a  fifth-form  composition.  Guy  took 
the  manuscripts  out  of  his  desk,  and,  disengaging  from  the 
heap  any  poems  that  might  be  ascribed  to  the  influence 
of  Pauline,  he  presented  the  rest  to  his  father.  Mr. 
Hazlewood  settled  himself  as  comfortably  as  he  could 
ever  seem  to  be  comfortable  and  solemnly  began  to  read 
without  comment.  Guy  would  have  liked  to  get  up  and 
leave  him  alone,  for  though  he  assured  himself  that  the 
opinion,  whether  favorable  or  unfavorable,  did  not  matter, 
his  suspense  was  sharp  and  the  inexpression  of  his  father's 
demeanor,  that  assumption  of  tutorial  impartiality,  kept 
him  puzzling  and  unable  to  do  anything  but  watch  the 
critic's  face  and  toy  mechanically  with  the  hair  of  Bob's 
sentimental  head  upon  his  knee. 

At  last  the  manuscripts  were  finished,  and  Guy  sat 
back  for  the  verdict. 

"Oh  yes,  I  like  some  very  much,"  said  Mr.  Hazlewood. 
"But  I  can't  help  thinking  that  all  of  them  could  have 
been  written  as  well  in  recreation  after  the  arduousness  of 
a  decent  profession.  However,  you've  burned  your  boats 
as  far  as  Fox  Hall  is  concerned,  and  I  shall  certainly  be 
the  first  to  congratulate  you  if  you  bring  your  ambition 
to  a  successful  issue." 

"You  mean  monetarily?"  Guy  asked. 

His  father  did  not  answer. 

"You  wouldn't  count  as  a  successful  issue  recognition 
from  the  people  who  care  for  poetry?"  Guy  went  on. 

"I'm  not  particularly  impressed  by  contemporary 
taste,"  said  Mr.  Hazlewood.  "We  seem  to  me  to  be  liv- 
ing in  a  time  when  all  the  great  men  have  gone,  and 

215 


FLASHERS   MEAD 

the  new  generation  does  not  appear  likely  to  fill  very  ade- 
quately the  gap  they  have  left." 

"I  wonder  if  there  has  ever  been  a  time  when  people 
have  not  said  just  what  you're  saying?  Do  you  seriously 
think  you'd  recognize  a  great  man  if  you  saw  him?" 

"I  hope  I  should,"  said  his  father,  looking  perfectly 
convinced  that  he  would. 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  you  would,"  said  Guy.  "How 
do  you  know  I'm  not  a  great  man?" 

His  father  laughed  dryly. 

"I  don't  know,  my  dear  Guy,  of  course,  and  nothing 
would  gratify  me  more  than  to  find  out  that  you  were. 
But,  at  least,  you'll  allow  me  to  observe  that  great  men 
are  generally  remarkable  for  their  modesty." 

"Yes,  after  they've  been  accorded  the  homage  of  the 
world,"  Guy  argued.  "They  can  afford  to  be  modest 
then.  I  fancy  that  most  of  them  were  self-confident  in 
their  youth.  I  hope  they  were,  poor  devils.  It  must 
have  been  miserable  for  most  of  them,  if  they  weren't." 

"However,"  said  Mr.  Hazlewood,  "all  these  theories 
of  juvenile  grandeur,  interesting  though  they  may  be,  do 
not  take  us  far  along  the  road  of  practical  politics.  I'm 
to  understand,  am  I,  that  you  are  quite  determined  to 
remain  here?" 

"For  another  year,  at  any  rate,"  Guy  said.  "That  is, 
until  Ihave  a  volume  of  poems  ready." 

"And  your  engagement?"  asked  his  father. 

Guy  smiled  to  himself.  It  was  a  minor  triumph,  but 
it  was  definitely  a  triumph  to  have  made  his  father  be 
the  first  to  mention  the  subject  that  had  stood  at  the 
back  of  their  minds  ever  since  they  met  on  the  Shipcot 
platform. 

"Look  here,  before  we  discuss  that  I  want  you  to  see 
Pauline.  I  think  you'll  understand  my  point  of  view 
more  clearly  after  you've  seen  her.  Now  wouldn't  you 
like  to  take  a  stroll  round  Wychford?  The  architec- 
ture. .  .  ." 

216 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

Guy  and  his  father  wandered  about  until  dusk,  and  in 
the  evening  after  dinner  they  played  piquet. 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't  enjoy  a  walk  in  the  moon- 
light?" Guy  suggested,  after  the  third  hand. 

"I  have  my  health  to  think  about.  Term  begins  in  a 
fortnight,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Hazlewood. 

Guy  had  pulled  back  the  curtains  and  was  watching 
the  full  moon.  This,  though  ten  days  short  of  the  actual 
anniversary,  was  the  lunary  festival  of  the  night  when 
he  first  saw  Pauline.  Might  it  be  accepted  as  a  pro- 
pitious omen?  Who  could  say?  They  talked  of  dull 
subjects  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Guy  had  sent  a  note  to  Mrs.  Grey,  suggesting  that  he 
should  bring  his  father  to  tea  next  day;  and  so  about  four 
o'clock  they  set  out  to  the  Rectory,  the  lover  in  great 
trepidation  of  spirit.  His  father  was  seeming  much  more 
than  ever  parched  and  inhuman,  and  Guy  foresaw  that 
his  effect  upon  Pauline  would  be  disastrous.  Nor  did  he 
feel  that  the  strain  upon  his  own  nerves  was  going  to  be 
the  best  thing  for  the  situation.  On  the  way  to  the 
Rectory  they  met  young  Brydone,  and  Guy  very  nearly 
invited  him  to  accompany  them,  in  a  desperate  impulse 
to  evoke  a  crowd  in  which  he  could  lose  this  disturbing 
consciousness  of  his  father's  presence.  However,  he  man- 
aged to  avoid  such  a  subversion  of  his  attitude;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  they  were  in  the  hall  of  the  Rectory,  where 
Mrs.  Grey,  as  nervously  agitated  as  she  could  be,  was  wel- 
coming them.  Luckily  Margaret  had  arrived  on  the 
scene  before  Pauline,  and  Guy  managed  to  place  his  father 
next  to  her,  while  he  took  up  the  task  of  trying  to  com- 
pose Mrs.  Grey.  At  last  Pauline  came  in,  and  Guy 
seemed  to  be  only  aware  of  a  tremendous  increase  in  the 
noise  of  the  conversation.  He  realized  that  it  was  due 
to  himself's  talking  nonsense  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and 
that  Pauline  was  vainly  trying  to  get  on  with  his  father. 
Monica  had  gone  to  look  for  the  Rector,  and  Mrs.  Grey 
was  displaying  the  kind  of  treasures  she  would  produce 
15  217 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

at  a  mothers'  meeting — treasures  to  which  his  father 
paid  but  the  most  scant  attention.  The  whole  room 
seemed  to  revolve  round  his  father,  who  for  Guy  had  be- 
come the  only  person  in  focus,  as  he  stood  there  parched 
and  inhuman,  and  perhaps  himself  a  little  shy  of  what 
he  was  evidently  supposing  to  be  a  very  mad  family. 
Guy,  so  miserable  was  he  feeling  at  his  father's  coldness 
of  manner  towards  the  Greys,  wished  passionately  that 
his  mother  were  alive,  because  he  knew  how  much  she 
would  have  appreciated  them.  Monica  had  now  come 
back  with  information  that  the  Rector  was  undiscover- 
able,  so  Mrs.  Grey  volunteered  to  show  Mr.  Hazlewood 
the  garden. 

"She'll  tell  you  all  the  flowers  wrong,"  Pauline  warned 
him. 

Mr.  Hazlewood  bowed. 

"I'm  afraid  I  know  nothing  about  flowers." 

"Guy  has  learned  a  lot  from  Father,"  said  Pauline. 
"Haven't  you,  Guy?" 

She  was  making  the  bravest  effort,  but  it  was  hopeless, 
utterly  hopeless,  Guy  thought. 

How  the  promenade  round  these  gardens  that  were 
haunted  with  his  and  her  delights  was  banishing  them  one 
by  one!  How  endless  it  was,  and  how  complete  was  the 
failure  to  incorporate  his  father  in  a  life  which  his  advent 
had  so  detestably  disturbed!  Guy  acknowledged  that  the 
meeting  between  him  and  Pauline  had  served  no  purpose, 
and  as  he  looked  forward  to  the  final  battle  between  their 
wills  this  evening,  he  set  his  teeth  with  rage  to  defeat  his 
father,  at  the  moment  caring  not  at  all  if  he  never  saw 
him  again. 

Guy  knew,  as  they  were  walking  back  to  Plashers  Mead, 
how  little  worth  while  it  was  to  ask  what  his  father  had 
thought  of  the  Greys;  but,  nevertheless,  he  could  not 
resist  the  direct  inquiry. 

"They  seem  a  very  happy-go-lucky  family,"  was  the 
reply.  "I  thought  it  extremely  strange  that  Mr.  Grey 

218 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

did  not  take  the  trouble  to  be  at  home  for  my  visit.  I 
should  have  thought  that  in  regard  to  his  daughter's 
future  I  might  be  considered  sufficiently  .  .  .  However,  it's 
all  of  a  piece." 

Guy  hated  the  mock-modest  lacuna  in  the  characteriza- 
tion, and  he  thought  of  the  many  schoolmasters  he  had 
known  whose  consciousness  of  external  opinion  never  al- 
lowed them  to  claim  a  virtue  for  themselves,  although  their 
least  action  always  contained  an  implication  of  merit. 

Guy  made  some  excuse  for  the  Rector's  absence  and 
rather  moodily  walked  on  beside  his  father.  The  battle 
should  be  to-night;  and  after  dinner  he  came  directly  to 
the  point. 

"I  hope  you  like' Pauline ?" 

"My  dear  Guy,  your  impulsiveness  extends  too  far. 
How  can  I,  after  a  few  minutes'  conversation,  pronounce 
an  opinion  ?" 

"But  she's  not  a  pathological  case,"  cried  Guy  in 
exasperation. 

"Precisely,"  retorted  his  father.  "And  therefore  I  pay 
her  the  compliment  of  not  rushing  into  headstrong  ap- 
proval or  disapproval.  Certainly  she  seemed  to  me 
superficially  a  very  charming  girl,  but  I  should  be  in- 
clined to  think  somewhat  excitable." 

"Of  course  she  was  shy." 

"Naturally.  These  sudden  immersions  in  new  rela- 
tionships do  not  make  for  ease.  I  was  myself  a  little 
embarrassed.  But,  after  all,  the  question  is  not  whether 
I  like — er — Pauline,  but  whether  I  am  justified  on  her 
account  as  well  as  on  yours  in  giving  my  countenance  to 
this  ridiculous  engagement.  Please  don't  interrupt  me. 
My  time  is  short,  and  I  must,  as  your  father,  fulfil  my 
obligations  to  you  by  saying  what  I  have  to  say." 

Even  in  his  speech  he  was  epistolary,  and  while  he  spoke 
Guy  was  ail  the  time,  as  it  were,  tearing  him  into  small 
pieces  and  dropping  him  deliberately  into  the  waste- 
$aper  basket. 

219 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Had  I  been  given  an  opportunity,"  his  father  went  on, 
"of  speaking  privately  with  Mr.  Grey,  I  should  have  let 
him  plainly  understand  how  much  I  deplored  your  un- 
justifiable embarkation  upon  this  engagement.  You 
have,  frankly,  no  right  to  engage  yourself  to  a  girl  when 
you  are  without  the  means  to  bring  the  pledge  to  fruition. 
You  possess,  it  is  true,  an  income  of  £150  a  year — too 
little  to  make  you  really  independent,  too  much  to  com- 
pel you  to  relinquish  your  own  mad  scheme  of  liveli- 
hood. 

"I  have  had  the  privilege  of  reading  your  verse,"  he 
continued,  protesting  against  an  interruption  with  up- 
raised hand.  "Well,  I  am  glad  enough  to  say  that  it 
seems  to  me  promising;  but  what  is  promising  verse?  A 
few  seedlings  in  a  flower-pot  that  even  if  they  come  to 
perfection  will  serve  no  purpose  but  of  decoration.  It  is 
folly  or  mere  wanton  self-deception  for  you  to  pretend 
that  you  can  live  by  poetry.  Why,  even  if  you  were  an 
American  you  couldn't  live  by  poetry.  Now  please  let 
me  finish.  My  common  sense  no  doubt  strikes  you  as 
brutal,  but  if,  when  it  is  your  turn  to  speak,  you  can 
produce  the  shadow  of  a  probability  that  you  will  ever 
earn  your  own  living,  I  shall  be  only  too  willing  to  be 
convinced.  I  am  not  so  much  enamoured  of  my  school- 
master's life  as  to  wish  to  bind  you  down  to  that;  but 
between  being  a  schoolmaster  and  being  what  the  world 
would  call  an  idle  young  poseur  lies  a  big  gulf.  Why  did 
not  you  stick  to  your  Macedonian  idea?  Surely  that  was 
romantic  enough  to  please  even  you.  No,  the  whole 
manner  of  your  present  life  spells  self-indulgence,  and  I 
warn  you  it  will  inevitably  bring  in  its  train  the  results 
of  self-indulgence.  My  dear  Guy,  do  something.  Don't 
stay  here  talking  of  what  you  are  going  to  do.  Say  good- 
by  for  the  present  to  Pauline  and  do  something.  If  she 
is  fond  of  you  she  will  be  prouder  of  you  when  she  sees 
that  you  are  determined  to  fight  to  win  her.  My  boy,  I 
speak  to  you  very  seriously,  and  I  warn  you  that  this  is 

220 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

the  last  protest  I  shall  make.  You  are  behaving  wrongly; 
her  parents  are  behaving  wrongly.  If  you  must  write, 
get  some  regular  work.  Why  not  try  for  the  staff  of  some 
reputable  paper  like  The  Spectator?" 

"Good  heavens!"  Guy  ejaculated. 

"Well,  there  may  be  other  reputable  papers,  though  I 
confess  The  Spectator  is  my  favorite." 

"Yes,  I  know.     It  probably  would  be." 

"It's  this  terrible  inaction,"  his  father  went  on.  "I 
don't  know  how  you  can  tolerate  the  ignominious  position 
in  which  you  find  yourself.  To  me  it  would  be  unen- 
durable." 

Mr.  Hazlewood  sighed  with  the  satisfaction  of  unbur- 
dening himself,  and  waited  for  his  son  to  reply,  who  with  a 
tremendous  effort  not  to  spoil  the  force  of  his  argument 
by  losing  his  temper  began  calmly  enough: 

"I  have  never  contended  that  I  should  earn  my  living 
by  poetry.  What  I  have  hoped  is  that  when  my  first 
book  appears  it  would  be  sufficiently  remarkable  to  re- 
store your  confidence  in  me." 

"In  other  words,"  his  father  interrupted,  "to  tempt 
me  to  support  you — or  rather,  as  it  now  turns  out,  to  help 
you  to  get  married." 

"Well,  why  not?"  said  Guy.  "I'm  your  only  son. 
You  can  spare  the  money.  Why  shouldn't  you  help  me? 
I'm  not  asking  you  to  do  anything  before  I've  justified 
myself.  I'm  only  asking  you  to  wait  a  year.  If  my  book 
is  a  failure,  it  will  be  I  who  pay  the  penalty,  not  you.  My 
confidence  will  be  severely  damaged,  whereas  in  your  case 
only  your  conceit  will  be  faintly  ruffled." 

"Were  I  really  a  conceited  man  I  should  resent  your 
last  remark,"  said  his  father.  "But  let  it  pass,  and  finish 
what  you  were  going  to  say." 

Guy  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  seeking  to  find 
from  the  moonlight  a  coolness  that  would  keep  his  tem- 
per in  hand. 

"Would  you  have  preferred  that  I  did  not  ask  Pauline 

221 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

to  marry,  that  I  made  love  to  her  without  any  intention 
of  marriage?" 

"Not  at  all,"  his  father  replied.  "I  imagine  that  you 
still  possess  some  self-restraint,  that  when  you  began  to 
feel  attracted  to  her  you  could  have  wrestled  with  your- 
self against  what  in  the  circumstances  was  a  purely  selfish 
emotion." 

"But  why,  why?  What  really  good  reason  can  you 
bring  forward  against  my  behavior,  except  reasons  based 
on  a  cowardly  fear  of  not  being  prosperous?  You  have 
always  impressed  on  me  so  deeply  the  identity  of  your 
youthful  ambitions  with  mine  that  I  don't  suppose  I'm 
assuming  too  much  when  I  ask  what  you  would  have 
done  if  you  had  met  Mother  when  you  were  not  in  a 
position  to  marry  her  immediately?  Would  you  have 
said  nothing?" 

"I  hope  I  should  have  had  sufficient  restraint  not  to 
want  to  marry  anybody  until  I  was  able  to  offer  material 
support  as  well  as  a  higher  devotion." 

"But  if  ...  oh,  love  is  not  a  matter  of  the  will." 

"Excuse  me,"  his  father  contradicted,  obstinately. 
"Everything  is  a  matter  of  will.  That  is  precisely  the 
point  I  am  trying  to  make." 

Guy  marched  over  to  the  fireplace  and,  balancing  him- 
self on  the  fender,  proclaimed  the  attainment  of  a  dead- 
lock. 

"You  and  I,  my  dear  Father,  differ  in  fundamentals. 
Supposing  I  admit  for  a  moment  that  I  may  be  wrong, 
aren't  you  just  as  wrong  in  not  trying  to  see  my  point  of 
view?  Supposing,  for  instance,  Tennyson  had  paid  atten- 
tion to  criticism — I  don't  mean  of  his  work,  but  of  his 
manner  of  life — what  would  have  happened?" 

"I  can't  afford  to  run  the  risk  of  being  considered  the 
fond  parent  by  announcing  you  to  the  world  as  a  second 
Tennyson.  Thirty-five  years  of  a  schoolmaster's  life  have 
at  least  taught  me  that  parents  as  parents  have  a  natural 
propensity  towards  the  worst  excesses  of  human  folly." 

222 


ANOTHER    AUTUMN 

"Then  in  other  words,"  Guy  responded,  "I'm  to  mess 
up  my  life  to  preserve  your  dignity.  That's  what  it 
amounts  to.  I  tell  you  I  believe  in  myself.  I'm  con- 
vinced that  beside  will,  there  is  destiny." 

Mr.  Hazlewood  sniffed. 

"Destiny  is  the  weak  man's  canonization  of  his  own 
vices." 

"Well,  then  I  will  succeed,"  retorted  Guy.  "More- 
over, I  will  succeed  in  my  own  way.  It  seems  a  pity  that 
we  should  argue  acrimoniously.  I  shall  say  no  more.  I 
accept  the  responsibility.  For  what  you've  done  for  me 
I'm  very  much  obliged.  Would  you  care  for  a  hand  at 
piquet?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  his  father. 

Guy  hugged  himself  with  another  minor  triumph.  At 
least  it  was  he  who  had  determined  when  the  discussion 
should  be  closed. 

The  next  day,  as  Guy  stood  on  the  Shipcot  platform  and 
watched  the  slow  train  puffing  away  into  the  unadven- 
turous  country,  he  had  a  brief  sentiment  of  regret  for  the 
failure  of  his  father's  visit,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  write 
to  him  a  letter  to-morrow,  which  would  sweeten  a  little 
of  the  bitterness  between  them.  The  bees  buzzing  round 
the  wine-dark  dahlias  along  the  platform  were  once  again 
audible;  and  close  at  hand  was  the  hum  of  a  reaper-and- 
binder.  But  as  he  drove  back  to  Wychford  his  father 
passed  from  his  mind,  and  mostly  Guy  thought  of  walking 
with  Pauline  under  the  pale  and  ardent  blue  of  this 
September  sky  that  was  reflected  in  the  chicory  flowers 
along  the  sparse  and  dusty  hedgerow. 


OCTOBER 

"  AA  Y  dears,  he  frightened  me  to  death,"  Pauline  de- 
1  T  1  clared  to  her  family  when  Mr.  Hazlewood  had  left 
the  Rectory.  "Only  I  expect,  you  know,  that  really  he's 
rather  sweet." 

"I  don't  think  he  approved  of  us  very  much,"  said 
Margaret. 

"I  didn't  approve  of  him  very  much,"  said  Monica. 

"And  where  was  Francis?"  asked  Mrs.  Grey. 

"Francis  was  a  naughty  boy,"  said  Pauline. 

Since  they  were  sitting  in  the  nursery,  her  mother 
allowed  the  Christian  name  to  pass  without  reproof. 

"He  was  so  exactly  like  Guy,"  said  Margaret. 

"Like  Guy?"  Pauline  echoed,  incredulously. 

"Yes,  of  course.  Didn't  you  notice  that?"  Margaret 
laughed. 

"You're  quite  right,  Margaret,"  said  Mrs.  Grey. 
"How  clever  of  you  to  see.  Now,  of  course,  I  realize  how 
much  alike  they  were  .  .  .  how  clever  you  are!" 

"Without  Pauline,"  Margaret  went  on,  "Guy  might 
easily  become  his  father  all  over  again." 

"But,  my  dears,"  said  Pauline,  "that  would  be  terrible. 
I  remember  how  frightened  I  was  of  Guy  the  first  day 
he  came  to  the  Rectory,  and  if  he  grows  more  like  his 
father,  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  anything  else  but 
frightened  of  him,  even  if  we  live  for  ever.  For,  though 
I'm  sure  he's  really  very  sweet,  I  don't  believe  one  would 
ever  get  quite  used  to  Mr.  Hazlewood." 

Yet  when  Pauline  was  alone  and  had  an  opportunity 

224 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

to  look  back  upon  the  visit,  its  effect  was  rather  encourag- 
ing than  otherwise.  For  one  thing,  it  curiously  made  Guy 
more  actual,  because  until  the  personality  of  his  father 
projected  itself  upon  the  scene  of  their  love  he  had  always 
possessed  for  Pauline  a  kind  of  romantic  unreality.  In 
the  Spring  days  and  Summer  days  which  had  seemed  to 
dedicate  themselves  to  the  service  of  intimacy,  Guy  had 
talked  a  great  deal  of  his  life  before  they  met,  but  the 
more  he  had  told  her,  the  more  was  she  in  the  state  of 
being  unable  to  realize  that  the  central  figure  of  these  old 
tales  was  not  a  dream.  When  he  was  with  her,  she  was 
often  in  a  daze  of  wonder  at  the  credibility  of  being  loved 
like  this;  and  there  was  never  an  occasion  of  seeing  him 
even  after  the  briefest  absence  that  did  not  hold  in  the 
heart  of  its  pleasure  a  surprise  at  his  return.  The  ap- 
pearance of  Mr.  Hazlewood  was  a  phenomenon  that  gave 
the  pledge  of  prosaic  authority  to  her  love,  like  a  state- 
ment in  print  that,  however  absurd  or  uncomfortable,  has 
a  value  so  far  beyond  mere  talk.  She  had  often  been 
made  rather  miserable  by  Guy's  tales  of  the  ladies  he  had 
loved  with  airy  heedlessness,  but  these  heroines  had  all 
faded  out  in  the  unreality  of  his  life  apart  from  her,  and 
they  took  their  place  with  days  of  adventure  described 
in  Macedonia  or  with  the  old  diversions  of  Oxford.  The 
visit  of  Mr.  Hazlewood  with  the  chilly  disapproval  it  had 
shed  was  more  authentic  than,  for  instance,  the  idea  of 
Guy's  dark-eyed  mother,  who  had  seemed  in  his  narrations 
almost  to  threaten  Pauline  with  her  son's  fairy  ancestry, 
as  if  from  the  grave  she  might  at  any  moment  summon 
him  away.  Mr.  Hazlewood  had  carried  with  him  a 
wonderful  assurance  of  ordinariness.  The  merely  external 
resemblance  between  him  and  his  son  proved  that  Guy 
could  grow  old;  and  the  sense  of  his  opposition  was  a 
trifling  discomfort  in  comparison  with  the  assurance  he 
offered  of  an  imaginable  future.  She  remembered  that 
her  first  idea  of  Guy  had  been  that  of  some  one  dry  and 
cynical;  and  no  doubt  this  first  impression  of  his  father 

225 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

was  equally  wrong.  She  who  had  been  so  shy  and  speech- 
less was  no  doubt  much  to  blame,  and  the  family  had  done 
nothing  to  help  out  the  situation.  It  had  been  unkind 
of  her  father  to  hide  himself,  since  to  Mr.  Hazlewood,  who 
could  not  have  understood  that  it  was  the  sort  of  thing 
her  father  would  be  sure  to  do,  such  behavior  must  have 
presented  itself  very  oddly. 

The  Rector,  on  Pauline's  remonstrating  with  him,  was 
not  at  all  penitent. 

"When  your  marriage,  my  dear,  comes  on  the  horizon 
— I  don't  mind  how  faint  a  horizon — of  the  probable,  then 
it  will  be  time  to  discuss  matters  in  the  practical  way  I 
suppose  Mr.  Hazlewood  would  like  them  to  be  discussed. 
Moreover,  in  any  case,  I  forgot  that  the  worthy  gentle- 
man was  coming." 

Pauline  was  anxious  to  make  excuses  for  the  Rector  to 
Guy,  but  Guy,  when  he  came  round  next  day,  was  only 
apologetic  for  his  own  father's  behavior;  and  he  and  she 
came  to  a  conclusion  in  the  end  that  parents  must  be  for- 
given on  account  of  their  age. 

"At  the  same  time,"  Guy  added,  "I  blame  my  father 
for  his  conventional  outlook.  He  doesn't  seem  able  to 
realize  the  extraordinary  help  that  you  are  to  my  work. 
In  fact,  he  doesn't  realize  that  my  work  is  work.  He's 
been  teaching  for  so  many  years  that  now  he  can  no  longer 
learn  anything.  Your  father's  behavior  is  reasonable. 
He  doesn't  take  us  quite  seriously,  but  he  leaves  the 
situation  to  our  disentanglement.  Well,  we  shall  con- 
vince him  that  nothing  in  the  world  is  so  simple  as  a  love 
like  ours;  but  the  worst  of  my  father  is  that  even  if 
he  were  convinced  he  would  be  more  annoying  than 
ever." 

"You  must  make  allowances,  Guy.  For  one  thing,  how 
few  people,  even  when  they're  young,  understand  about 
love.  Besides,  he's  anxious  about  your  career." 

"What  right  has  he  to  be  anxious?"  Guy  burst  out, 
"If  I  fail,  I  pay  the  penalty,  not  he." 

226 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

"But  he  would  be  so  hurt  if  you  failed,"  she  urged. 

"Pauline,  if  you  can  say  that,  you  can  imagine  that  I 
will  fail.  Even  you  are  beginning  to  have  doubts." 

"I  haven't  any  doubts,"  she  whispered.  "I  know  you 
will  be  famous.  And  yet  I  have  doubts  of  another  sort. 
I  sometimes  wonder  if  I  shall  be  enough  when  you  are 
famous  ?" 

The  question  she  had  raised  launched  Guy  upon  a  sea 
of  eloquence.  He  worried  no  more  about  his  father,  but 
only  protested  his  dependence  upon  Pauline's  love  for 
everything  that  he  would  ever  have  accomplished. 

"Yes,  but  I  think  I  shall  seem  dull  one  day,"  she  per- 
sisted, with  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"No,  no.     How  could  you  seem  dull  to  me?" 

"But  I'm  not  clever  .  .  ." 

"Avoid  that  wretched  word,"  he  cried.  "It  can  only 
be  applied  to  thieves,  politicians,  and  lawyers.  I  have 
told  you  a  thousand  times  what  you  are  to  me,  and  I 
will  not  tell  you  again  because  I  don't  want  to  be  an 
egotist.  I  don't  want  to  represent  you  to  myself  as  a 
creature  that  exists  for  me.  You  are  a  being  to  whom  I 
aspire.  If  we  live  for  ever  I  shall  have  still  to  aspire  to 
you  and  never  be  nearer  than  the  hope  of  deserving  you." 

"But  your  poetry,  Guy,  are  you  sure  I  appreciate  it? 
Are  you  sure  I'm  not  just  a  silly  little  thing  lost  in  admira- 
tion of  whatever  you  do?" 

Guy  brushed  her  doubts  aside. 

"Poetry  is  life  trembling  on  the  edge  of  human  ex- 
pression," he  declared.  "You  are  my  life,  and  my  poor 
verse  faints  in  its  powerlessness  to  say  so.  I  always  must 
be  alone  to  blame  if  the  treasure  that  you  are  is  not 
proved  to  the  world." 

How  was  she  to  convince  him  of  her  unworthiness,  how 
was  she  to  persuade  this  lover  of  hers  that  she  was  too 
simple  a  creature  for  his  splendid  enthronement?  Sud- 
denly one  day  he  would  see  her  in  all  her  dullness  and 
ordinariness,  and,  turning  from  her  in  disillusion,  he  would 

227 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

hold  her  culpable  for  anything  in  his  work  that  might 
seem  to  have  betrayed  his  ambition. 

"Guy,"  she  called  into  the  future,  "you  will  always 
love  me?" 

"Will  there  ever  be  another  Pauline?" 

"Oh,  there  might  be  so  easily." 

"Never!  Never!  Every  hour,  every  moment  cries 
'never!'" 

In  her  heart  she  told  herself  that  at  least  none  but  she 
could  ever  love  him  so  well;  and  in  the  strange  confidence 
his  father's  visit  had  given  to  her  she  told  him  in  her 
turn  how  every  hour  and  every  moment  made  her  more 
dependent  upon  his  love. 

"I  want  nothing  but  you,  nothing,  nothing.  I've  given 
up  everything  for  you." 

"What  have  you  given  up?"  he  demanded,  at  once, 
jealously  and  triumphantly  regarding  her. 

"Oh,  nothing  really;  but  all  the  foolish  little  interests. 
Nothing,  my  dearest,  only  pigeons  and  music  and  working 
woolen  birds  and  visiting  poor  people.  Such  foolish  lit- 
tle things  .  .  .  and  yet  things  that  were  once  upon  a  time 
frightfully  important." 

"You  mustn't  give  up  your  music  and  your  pigeons." 

They  both  laughed  at  the  absurd  conjunction. 

"How  can  I  play  when  I'm  thinking  of  you  always, 
every  second?  Why,  when  I  do  anything  but  think  of 
you,  every  object  and  every  word  floats  away  as  it 
does  when  I'm  tired  and  trying  to  keep  awake  in  a 
big  room." 

"You  can  play  to  me,"  he  argued,  "even  when  I'm  not 
there." 

"Guy  darling,  I  do,  I  do;  but  you've  no  idea  how 
hopelessly  playing  to  an  absent  lover  destroys  the  time." 

The  memory  of  Mr.  Hazlewood's  visit  was  soon  lost  in 
the  celebration  of  their  anniversary  month.  As  they  had 
promised  themselves  in  Summer,  they  went  on  moonlit 
expeditions  to  gather  mushrooms;  and  at  the  waning  of 

228 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

the  moon  they  rose  early  on  many  milk-white  dawns  in- 
stead, when  the  mushrooms  at  such  an  hour  were  veritably 
the  spoil  of  dew,  gleaming  in  their  baskets  under  veils  of 
gossamer.  On  these  serene  mornings  the  sound  of  au- 
tumnal bird-song  came  to  them  out  of  misted  trees,  so 
that  they  used  to  talk  of  the  woods  in  the  next  Spring- 
time, themselves  moving  about  the  wan  vapors  with  that 
very  air  of  people  who  scarcely  live  in  the  present.  There 
was  in  this  plaintive  music  of  robins  and  thrushes  a  regret 
for  the  days  of  Summer  spent  together  that  were  now 
passed  away,  and  yet  a  more  robust  melody  might  have 
affronted  the  wistful  air  of  these  milk-white  dawns. 
The  frail  notes  of  the  birds  hinted  at  silence  beyond,  and 
through  the  opalescent  and  transuming  landscape  Guy 
and  Pauline  floated  in  fancy  once  more  down  the  young 
Thames  from  Ladingford.  The  sad  stillness  of  the  year's 
surrender  to  decline  admonished  them  to  garner  these 
hours,  making  a  ghost  even  of  the  sun,  as  if  to  warn  them 
of  the  fleeting  world,  the  covetous  and  furtive  world. 
They  wonderfully  enjoyed  these  hours,  but  Pauline,  when 
at  breakfast  the  mushrooms  came  fizzling  to  the  table, 
could  never  believe  that  she  had  been  with  Guy,  and  she 
used  often  to  be  discontented  on  being  reminded  by  her 
mother  of  how  much  of  the  day  she  had  already  spent  in 
his  company.  Looking  back  at  these  immaterial  morn- 
ings of  autumnal  mist,  she  saw  them  upon  the  confines  of 
sleep:  silvery  spaces  they  seemed  that  were  not  robbed 
from  any  familiar  time. 

There  was  during  all  this  month  a  certain  amount  of 
congratulation  which  had  to  be  endured,  and  Margaret 
was  angry  one  day  because  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ford  came  over 
from  Little  Fairfield  and  alluded  at  tea  to  their  hope  of 
Richard  and  her  soon  being  engaged.  Pauline  was  nat- 
urally subject  to  the  inquisitiveness  of  everybody,  but 
as  she  could  not  without  being  absent-minded  talk  about 
anything  except  Guy,  she  found  the  general  curiosity  not 
very  troublesome.  Guy,  however,  resented  this  atmos- 

229 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

phere  of  inquiry  and  was  always  more  and  more  anxious 
to  carry  her  out  of  reach  of  Wychford  gossip. 

One  day  in  mid-October  they  had  set  out  together  with 
the  intention  of  taking  a  long  walk  to  the  open  upland 
country  on  the  other  side  of  the  town,  when,  as  they  were 
going  up  High  Street,  they  saw  two  of  the  local  chatter- 
boxes. 

"I  will  not  stop  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Brydone  and  Mrs. 
Willsher,"  Guy  grumbled.  "Let's  cut  up  Abbey  Lane." 

They  turned  aside  and  were  making  their  way  to  the 
path  that  led  under  the  Abbey  wall  to  the  highroad, 
when  they  saw  Dr.  Brydone  and  his  son  coming  from  that 
direction. 

"Really,  there's  a  conspiracy  of  Brydones  to  waylay  us 
this  afternoon,"  Guy  exclaimed,  petulantly.  "We  shall 
have  to  go  through  the  Abbey  grounds." 

Pauline  had  passed  the  wicket,  which  he  had  impul- 
sively flung  open,  before  she  realized  the  violation  of  one 
of  her  age-long  rules. 

"It's  really  rather  jolly  in  here  to-day,"  said  Guy.  "I 
think  we're  duffers  not  to  come  more  often,  you  know." 

The  Autumn  wind  was  booming  round  the  plantation 
and  sweeping  up  the  broad  path  down  the  hillside  with  a 
skelter  of  leaves  that  gave  a  wild  gaiety  to  the  usually 
tristful  scene. 

"Why  shouldn't  we  explore  inside?"  suggested  Guy. 
"There's  something  so  exhilarating  about  this  great  west 
wind.  Almost  one  could  fancy  it  might  blow  away  that 
ghost  of  a  house." 

Pauline  hesitated;  since  earliest  childhood  the  Abbey 
had  oppressed  her  with  ill  omen,  and  she  could  not  over- 
come her  prejudice  in  a  moment. 

"You're  not  really  afraid  when  you're  with  me?"  he 
persisted. 

Pauline  surrendered,  and  they  went  across  the  etiolated 
lawn  towards  the  entrance.  The  wind  was  roaring  through 
every  crevice,  and  the  ivy  was  scratching  restlessly  at  the 

230 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

panes  or  shivering  where  through  the  gaps  it  had  crept 
in  with  furry  tendrils. 

"It's  rather  fun  to  be  walking  up  this  staircase  as  if 
this  were  our  own  house,"  said  Guy. 

Pauline  had  an  impulse  to  go  back,  and  she  made  a 
quick  step  to  descend. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Guy,  I  think  I  feel  afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"Oh,  not  of  anything.     Just  afraid." 

"Come,  foolish  one,"  he  whispered,  gently. 

And  she,  though  it  was  against  her  will,  followed  him 
up  the  echoing  empty  stairs. 

They  went  into  every  room,  and  Guy  declared  how  they 
with  their  love  were  restoring  to  each  of  them  the  life  it 
had  known  in  the  past.  Here  was  a  pleasant  fancy,  and 
Pauline  hoped  it  might  be  true.  In  the  thought  that 
their  presence  was  in  a  way  the  bestowal  of  charity  on 
these  maltreated  halls  she  lost  much  of  her  alarm  and 
began  to  enjoy  the  solitude  spent  with  Guy.  Whether 
they  looked  out  at  the  wilderness  that  once  was  a  gar- 
den or  at  the  rank  lawn  in  front,  the  thunderous  wind 
surging  round  the  house  brought  them  closer  together  in 
the  consciousness  of  their  own  shelter  and  their  own 
peace  in  this  deserted  habitation. 

"Now  confess,"  said  Guy,  "haven't  we  been  rather 
stupid  to  neglect  such  a  refuge?" 

"But,  Guy,  we  haven't  needed  a  refuge  very  often," 
objected  Pauline,  who,  for  all  that  she  was  losing  some  of 
her  dread  of  the  Abbey,  was  by  no  means  inclined  to  set 
up  a  precedent  for  going  there  too  often. 

"Not  yet,"  he  admitted.  "But  with  Winter  coming  on 
and  the  wet  days  that  will  either  keep  us  indoors  or  else 
prevent  us  from  doing  anything  but  walk  perpetually 
along  splashy  roads,  we  sha'n't  be  sorry  to  have  a  place 
like  this  to  which  we  can  retreat  in  comparative  com- 
fort." 

231 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Oh,  Guy,"  Pauline  asked,  anxiously,  "I  suppose  we 
ought  not  to  come  here?" 

"Why  on  earth  not?" 

"Don't  be  angry.  But  the  idea  just  flashed  through 
my  mind  that  perhaps  Mother  wouldn't  like  us  to  come 
here  very  often." 

He  sighed  deeply. 

"Really,  sometimes  I  wonder  what  is  the  good  of  being 
engaged.  Are  we  for  ever  to  be  hemmed  in  by  the  con- 
ventions of  a  place  like  Wychford  ?" 

"Oh,  but  I  expect  Mother  wouldn't  mind,  really,"  said 
Pauline,  reassuring  herself  and  him.  "I'm  always  liable 
to  these  fits  of  doubt.  Sometimes  I  feel  quite  weighed 
down  by  the  responsibility  of  being  grown  up." 

She  laughed  at  herself,  and  the  laughter  ringing  through 
the  hollow  house  seemed  to  return  and  mock  her  with  a 
mirthless  echo. 

"Oh,  Guy!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh,  Guy,  I  wish  I  hadn't 
laughed  then!  Did  you  hear  how  strangely  it  seemed  as 
if  the  house  laughed  back  at  me?" 

She  had  gripped  his  arm,  and  Guy,  startled  by  her 
gesture,  exclaimed  rather  irritably  that  she  ought  to  con- 
trol her  nerves. 

"Well,  don't  let's  stay  in  this  room.  I  don't  like  the 
green  light  that  the  ivy  is  giving  your  face." 

"What  next?"  he  grumbled.  "Well,  let's  go  out  on 
the  balcony." 

They  went  half-way  down-stairs  to  the  door  that 
opened  on  a  large  balustraded  terrace  with  steps  leading 
from  either  end  into  the  ruined  garden.  The  wind  beat 
against  them  with  such  force  here  that  very  soon  they 
went  back  into  the  house,  and  Guy  found  a  small  room 
looking  out  on  the  terrace,  in  which  he  persuaded  Pauline 
to  come  and  sit  for  a  while.  All  the  other  rooms  in  the 
house  had  been  so  dreadfully  decayed,  so  much  battered 
by  every  humiliation  time  could  inflict  upon  them,  that 
this  small  parlor  was  in  contrast  positively  habitable.  It 

232 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

gave  the  impression  of  being  perhaps  the  last  place  to 
which  the  long-vanished  owners  had  desperately  held. 
There  was  a  rusty  hob-grate,  and  in  the  window  a  deep 
wooden  seat;  while  the  walls  were  still  painted  with 
courtly  scenes,  and  the  inlaid  wooden  floor  gave  a  decency 
which  everywhere  else  had  been  destroyed  by  the  moulder- 
ing boards. 

"I  say,  it  would  be  fun  to  light  a  fire  some  time/'  said 
Guy.  "This  is  just  the  room  for  us." 

"It's  rather  a  frightening  room,"  said  Pauline,  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Dearest,  you  insist  on  being  frightened  by  everything 
this  afternoon,"  he  answered. 

"No,  but  this  room  is  frightening,  Guy,"  she  per- 
sisted. "This  seems  so  near  to  being  lived  in  by  dead 
people." 

"And  what  can  dead  people  do  to  you  and  me?"  he 
asked,  with  that  sidelong  mocking  smile  which  she  half 
disliked,  half  loved. 

Pauline  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  once;  then  she 
came  across  to  where  he  invited  her  to  sit  in  the  window- 
bay. 

"I  ought  to  have  brought  my  diamond  pencil,"  he  said. 
"This  is  such  a  window  for  mottoes.  Why,  I  declare! 
Somebody  has  scrawled  one.  Look,  Pauline.  Pauline, 
look!  1770.  R.  G.  P.  F.  inside  a  heart.  Oh,  what  a 
pity  it  wasn't  P.  G.  for  Pauline  Grey.  Still,  the  G  can 
stand  for  Guy.  Oh,  really,  I  think  it's  an  extraordinary 
coincidence!  P.  F.?  We  can  find  out  which  of  the 
Fentons  that  was.  We'll  look  up  in  the  history  of  the 
family.  Darling,  I  am  so  glad  we  came  to  this  little 
room.  Think  of  those  lovers  who  sat  here  once  like  us. 
Pauline,  it  makes  me  cherish  you  so." 

She  sat  upon  his  knees,  because  the  window-seat  was 
dusty,  and  because  in  this  place  of  fled  lovers  she  wanted 
to  be  held  closely  to  his  heart. 

The  wind  boomed  and  moaned,  and  the  sun  breaking 

16  233 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

through  the  clouds  lit  up  the  walls  with  a  wild  yellow 
light. 

Suddenly  Pauline  drew  away  from  his  arms. 

"Shadows  went  by  the  window,"  she  cried.  "Guy,  I 
feel  afraid.  I  feel  afraid.  There's  a  footstep." 

She  was  lily-white  whose  cheeks  had  but  now  been 
burning  so  fiercely. 

"Nonsense,"  he  replied,  half  roughly.  "It  was  that 
burst  of  sunshine." 

"Guy,  there  were  shadows.     Hark!" 

She  nearly  screamed,  because  footsteps  were  going  down 
the  stairs  of  the  empty  house. 

"It  must  have  been  the  caretaker,"  said  Guy. 

"I  saw  a  white  person.  Guy,  never,  never  let  us  come 
here  again." 

"You  don't  seriously  think  you  saw  a  ghost?"  he 
asked. 

"Guy,  how  do  I  know?  Come  away  into  the  air.  We 
should  never  have  come  here.  Oh,  this  room!  I  feel  as 
if  I  should  faint." 

"I'll  see  who  it  was,"  said  Guy,  springing  up. 

"No,  don't  leave  me.  Wait  for  me.  I'll  come  with 
you." 

They  hurried  down  the  stairs,  and  when  they  reached 
the  pallid  lawn  they  saw  Margaret  and  Monica  in  their 
white  coats  disappearing  among  the  yew-trees  by  the 
entrance. 

"There  are  your  ghosts,"  said  Guy,  laughing. 

Yet,  though  Guy  scoffed  at  her  fears,  Pauline  was  not 
sure  that  she  would  not  have  preferred  a  ghost  to  that 
disquieting  passage  of  her  sisters  without  hail  or  com- 
ment. Yet  perhaps,  after  all,  they  had  not  seen  her  and 
Guy  in  that  sinister  small  parlor. 

"Shall  we  catch  them  up?"  he  asked. 

And  Pauline,  with  a  breath  of  dismay,  was  conscious 
of  an  inclination  to  pretend  that  they  had  not  been  here 
this  afternoon.  She  discovered  herself,  as  it  were,  pro- 

234 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

posing  to  Guy  that  they  should  not  overtake  Monica 
and  Margaret.  A  secretiveness  she  had  never  known 
before  had  seized  her  soul,  and  she  hoped  that  their  pres- 
ence in  the  Abbey  was  unknown.  Guy  divined  at  once 
that  she  did  not  want  to  overtake  her  sisters,  and  he  kept 
her  under  the  trees,  where  they  watched  each  assault  of 
the  wind  tearing  at  the  little  foliage  that  still  remained. 
He  guided  her  tenderly  away  from  the  sight  of  the  house; 
and  they  walked  along  the  broad  path  down  through  the 
shrubbery,  meeting  a  rout  of  brown  and  red  and  yellow 
leaves  that  swept  by  them.  She  clung  to  Guy's  arm  as 
if  this  urgent  and  tumultuous  wind  had  the  power  to 
sweep  her,  too,  into  the  confusion;  such  an  affraying  jour- 
ney was  life  beginning  to  seem.  This  ghastly  elation  of 
the  October  weather  would  not  allow  her  breath  to  ex- 
amine the  perplexity  in  which  she  had  involved  herself. 
She  felt  that  if  the  wind  blew  any  louder  she  would  have 
to  scream  out  in  defiance  of  its  violence  or  else  surrender 
miserably  and  be  whirled  into  oblivion.  A  brown  oak- 
leaf  had  escaped  from  the  perishable  host  and  was  pal- 
pitating in  a  fold  of  her  sleeve  like  a  hunted  creature; 
but  when  Pauline  would  have  rescued  it  at  the  same 
moment  a  gust  came  roaring  up  the  walk  under  the  hiss- 
ing trees,  and  the  driven  leaf  was  torn  from  its  refuge 
and  flung  high  into  the  air  to  join  the  myriads  in  their 
giddy  riot  of  death. 

"Come  away  from  here,"  she  cried  to  Guy.  "Come 
away  or  I  shall  go  mad  in  this  wind." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  judicial  demeanor,  as  if 
he  were  in  doubt  whether  he  ought  not  to  reprove  such 
excitement. 

"It  was  really  beginning  to  blow  quite  fiercely,"  he 
said,  when  they  had  reached  the  comparative  stillness  of 
Abbey  Lane. 

Behind  them  Pauline  still  heard  with  terror  and  hatred 
the  moaning  of  the  trees,  and  she  hurried  away  from  the 
sound. 

235 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Never,  never  will  I  go  there  again.  Why  did  you  ask 
me  to  go  there?  I  would  sooner  have  met  a  thousand 
Brydones  than  have  been  in  that  house." 

"Pauline,"  he  protested,  "you  really  do  sometimes  en- 
courage yourself  to  be  overwrought." 

"Guy,  don't  lecture  me,"  she  said,  turning  upon  him 
fiercely. 

"Well,  don't  let  the  whole  of  Wychford  see  that  you're 
in  a  temper,"  he  retorted.  "  People  haven't  yet  got  over 
the  idea  of  us  two  as  a  natural  curiosity  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. I  don't  want  .  .  .  and  I  don't  suppose  you're  very 
anxious  for  these  yokels  to  discuss  our  quarrels  in  the 
post-office  to-night?" 

"I  don't  mind  what  anybody  does,"  said  Pauline,  des- 
perately. "I  only  want  to  be  out  of  this  wind — this 
wind." 

She  was  rather  glad  that  Guy,  perhaps  to  punish  her 
for  the  loss  of  control,  said  he  must  go  and  work  instead 
of  coming  back  to  tea  at  the  Rectory.  It  strangely  gave 
her  the  ability  to  smile  at  him  and  be  in  their  parting 
herself  again,  whereas  had  he  come  back  with  her  she  knew 
that  she  would  still  have  felt  irritated.  Her  smile  may 
have  abashed  his  ill-humor,  for  he  seemed  inclined  to 
change  his  mind  about  the  need  for  work;  but  she  would 
not  let  him,  and  hurried  towards  home  at  the  back  of  the 
west  wind.  Should  she  ask  her  sisters  if  they  had  seen 
her  in  the  Abbey  ?  It  would  be  better  to  wait  until  they 
said  something  first.  It  would  really  be  best  to  say  noth- 
ing about  this  afternoon.  Tea  was  in  the  nursery  that 
day,  for  the  Rector  was  holding  some  sort  of  colloquy 
in  the  drawing-room,  which  he  always  used  for  parochial 
business,  because  he  dreaded  having  his  seeds  scattered 
by  the  awkward  fingers  of  the  flock. 

Tea  had  not  come  in  yet,  and  Pauline  took  her  familiar 
seat  in  the  window,  glad  to  be  out  of  the  wind,  but  pon- 
dering a  little  mournfully  the  lawn  mottled  with  leaves, 
and  the  lily-pond  that  was  being  seamed  and  crinkled  by 

236 


ANOTHER    AUTUMN 

every  gust  that  skated  across  the  surface.  When  the 
others  arrived  Pauline  knew  that  she  turned  round  to 
greet  them  defiantly,  although  she  would  have  given  much 
not  to  feel  excuseful  like  this. 

"You  didn't  see  Monica  and  me?"  Margaret  asked. 

"Only  after  you'd  gone  too  far  for  us  to  call  to  you," 
Pauline  answered,  nervously  assuring  herself  that  Mar- 
garet had  not  tried  to  "catch  her  out,"  as  Janet  would 
have  said. 

"We  had  taken  the  short  cut  through  the  Abbey," 
Monica  explained. 

Pauline  felt  that  what  Monica  had  meant  to  say  was: 
"We  did  not  spy  upon  you  deliberately."  And  that  she 
should  have  had  this  instinct  of  putting  her  sisters  in  the 
wrong  prepared  her  for  something  unpleasant,  that  and 
the  fuss  her  mother  was  making  over  the  tea-tray.  Pau- 
line was  more  than  ever  grateful  to  the  impulse  which  had 
not  allowed  Guy  to  change  his  mind  and  come  back  with 
her.  As  soon  as  tea  was  'over  Margaret  and  Monica  went 
away  to  practise  a  duet;  and  in  the  manner  of  their  going 
from  the  room  Pauline  felt  the  louring  of  the  atmosphere. 

Her  mother  began  at  once: 

"Pauline,  I'm  surprised  at  your  going  into  the  Abbey 
with  Guy." 

"Well,  it  was  really  an  accident.  I  mean  it  was  be- 
cause we  wanted  not  to  meet  any  of  the  Brydones,  who 
were  rushing  at  us  from  every  side." 

Pauline  tried  to  laugh,  but  her  mother  looked  down  at 
the  milk-jug  and  flushed  nearly  to  crimson  in  the  em- 
barrassment of  something  she  was  forcing  herself  to  say, 

"It's  not  merely  going  into  the  Abbey  ...  no  ...  not 
merely  that  .  .  .  no,  not  merely  going  into  the  Abbey 
.  .  .  but  to  let  Guy  make  love  to  you  like  that  is  so  vulgar. 
Pauline,  it's  the  sort  of  way  that  servants  behave  when 
they're  in  love." 

She  sprang  from  the  window-seat. 

"Mother,  what  do  you  mean?" 
237 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Margaret  and  Monica  saw  you  sitting  on  Guy's  knee. 
In  any  case  I  would  rather  you  never  did  that.  In  any 
case  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  but  in  a  place  where  people  passing  might 
have  seen  .  .  .  yes,  would  have  seen  .  . .  oh,  it  was  inexcus- 
able ...  I  shall  have  to  make  much  stricter  rules.  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  going  to  speak  to  Guy  about  this?"  Pauline 
asked.  The  house  seemed  to  be  whirling  away  like  a 
leaf,  such  a  shattering  of  her  love  were  these  words  of 
her  mother. 

"How  can  I  speak  to  Guy  about  it?"  Mrs.  Grey  de- 
manded, irritably.  "How  can  I,  Pauline?  It  has  nearly 
choked  me  to  speak  to  you." 

"I  think  Monica  and  Margaret  are  almost  wicked!" 
Pauline  cried  in  flames.  "They  are  trying  to  destroy 
everything.  They  are,  they  are.  No,  Mother,  you 
sha'n't  defend  them.  I  knew  they  felt  guilty  when  they 
went  out  of  the  room  like  that.  How  dare  they  put 
horrible  thoughts  in  your  mind?  How  dare  they? 
They're  cruel  to  me.  And  you're  cruel  to  me.  I  don't 
understand  what's  happening  to  everybody.  You'll  make 
me  hate  you  all,  if  you  speak  like  that!" 

She  rushed  from  the  nursery  and  went  first  to  the  music- 
room,  where  Margaret  was  sounding  deep  notes,  hanging 
over  her  violoncello,  and  where  Monica  was  playing  one 
of  those  contained,  somewhat  frigid  accompaniments. 

"Margaret  and  Monica,"  said  Pauline,  standing  in  the 
doorway,  "you're  never  to  dare  to  speak  about  me  to 
Mother  as  you  must  have  spoken  this  afternoon.  Be- 
cause neither  of  you  has  any  emotion  but  conceit  and 
selfishness,  you  shall  not  be  jealous  of  Guy  and  me. 
Margaret,  you  can  have  no  heart.  I  shall  write  to 
Richard  and  tell  him  you're  heartless.  Don't  smile  down 
at  your  violoncello.  You  shall  not  rule  me  into  being 
like  yourself.  Oh,  I'll  never  play  music  with  either  of 
you  again!" 

Then  she  left  them,  and  in  her  white  room  for  an  hour 
she  listened  hopelessly  to  the  trolling  wind. 

238 


NOVEMBER 

UY  was  very  indignant  when  he  heard  from  Pauline 
the  sequel  of  her  sisters'  vigilance.  That  they  should 
afterwards  have  tried  to  atone  with  gentleness  for  what 
they  had  made  her  suffer  did  not  avail  with  him.  Monica 
and  Margaret  now  impressed  him  with  their  unworldly 
beauty  in  a  strange  way,  for  they  became  sinister  figures 
like  the  Lady  Geraldine  in  Christabel,  sly,  malignant 
sylphs  set  in  ambush  to  haunt  the  romantic  path  of  his 
love.  He  was  intensely  aware  that  he  ought  not  to  re- 
sent their  interference,  but  that  he  ought,  in  fact,  to 
acknowledge  the  justice  of  it,  and  by  a  stoical  endeavor 
prove  himself  entitled  to  the  cares  of  this  long  engage- 
ment. Actually  Guy  was  enduring  a  violent  jealousy, 
and  illogically  he  began  to  declare  how  the  others  were 
jealous  of  him  and  Pauline.  The  consciousness  that  he 
could  not  carry  her  off  into  immediate  marriage  galled 
him,  and  he  suffered  all  the  pangs  of  an  unmerited  servi- 
tude. He  and  Pauline  became  the  prisoners  of  tyrants 
who  were  urging  them  to  accept  the  yoke  of  convention; 
the  more  he  suffered  the  more  he  knew  in  his  heart  that 
he  was  culpable,  and  the  more  culpable  he  recognized 
himself  the  more  he  chafed  against  the  burden  of  wait- 
ing. All  the  resolutions  that  with  the  announcement  of 
their  betrothal  had  seemed  to  sail  before  a  prospering 
breeze  now  turned  and  beat  up  against  adverse  influences, 
and  were  every  moment  in  danger  of  being  irreparably 
wrecked. 

Naturally  coincident  with  all  the  stress  of  a  situation, 
that  owing  to  the  temperament  of  the  Greys  was  never 

239 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

relieved  by  discussion,  was  a  complete  failure  to  advance 
on  the  private  road  of  his  poetical  ambition.  All  that 
he  had  written  was  seeming  vain  and  bad;  all  that  he 
was  now  trying  to  write  deteriorated  with  every  word 
painfully  inscribed  upon  the  cheerless  empty  page.  He 
had  conceived  a  set  of  eclogues  that  were  to  mark  his 
contempt  for  the  feverish  incompetence  of  the  modern 
school,  whose  ears  had  been  corrupted  by  Wagner's  filthy 
din;  and  all  he  could  manage  to  achieve  were  seeming  the 
banal  inspirations  of  Mendelssohn.  Guy  was  like  an 
alchemist  perpetually  on  the  verge  of  discovering  the 
stone  that  will  transmute  base  metals  to  gold  as  he  tried 
to  find  the  secret  by  which  such  an  one  as  Beethoven  could 
purify  with  art  the  most  violent  emotions  of  humanity, 
yet  always  preserve  their  intrinsic  value.  He  craved  the 
secret  which  even  the  most  obscure  Elizabethans  seemed 
to  have  possessed,  that  unearthly  power  of  harmony  which 
could  fuse  all  baseness  in  a  glittering  song.  Passion  had 
never  lost  itself  in  arid  decoration  when  they  sang;  nor 
yet  had  it  ever  betrayed  itself  with  that  impudently  di- 
rect appeal  these  modern  lyrists  made,  these  shameless 
Rousseaus  of  verse.  Yet  he  was  as  bad  as  any  of  them, 
for  he  was  either  like  them  when  he  tried  to  write  his 
heart,  or  he  expired  in  the  mere  sound  of  words  like  the 
degenerate  ruck  of  the  Caroline  heirs  to  a  great  tradition. 
He  was  almost  on  the  point  of  proclaiming  his  final  fail- 
ure, and  if  at  that  moment  he  could  have  received  from 
his  father  the  offer  to  come  and  teach  small  boys  at  Fox 
Hall,  he  would  have  gone. 

And  yet  would  he  have  gone?  Could  he  abandon  the 
delight  of  being  with  Pauline?  The  nearer  he  came  to 
confessing  his  failure  the  more  he  longed  for  her  com- 
pany. He  was  surely  now  in  the  midway  of  the  thorny 
path  of  love,  and  whether  he  progressed  or  retreated  he 
could  not  escape  the  spines.  Well  had  he  said  to  himself 
that  night  in  May:  "La  belle  Dame  sans  mercy  hath  thee 
in  thrall." 

240 


ANOTHER    AUTUMN 

All  the  fire  and  fever  of  his  present  life  on  the  outskirts 
of  a  haunted  country  was  for  his  imagination  alone.  How- 
ever timidly  his  pen  approached  those  dreams,  they 
vanished;  and  whenever  his  pen  betrayed  him  Guy 
turned  despairingly  again  to  Pauline  herself.  These  days 
without  her  were  every  day  more  unendurable.  Once  he 
had  been  content  to  talk  about  her  to  Mrs.  Grey  and  her 
sisters,  to  listen  to  their  praise  of  her;  now  every  word 
they  spoke  wounded  his  pride.  This  madness  of  love 
could  only  feed  itself  in  the  very  dungeons  of  his  mind; 
and  unless  she  were  with  him  it  did  so  horribly  gorge  it- 
self that,  if  he  had  not  swiftly  seen  her  again,  the  mad- 
ness would  have  broken  the  bars  of  its  prison  and  ridden 
him  like  a  hag. 

It  was  when  Guy  had  worked  himself  to  this  pitch  of 
desire  for  the  remedy  of  her  sweet  presence  that  Pauline 
was  denied  to  him.  He  knew  he  must  blame  himself  be- 
cause, even  after  the  warning  of  that  afternoon  in  the 
Abbey,  whenever  they  were  together  he  would  carry  her 
away  into  the  country,  whence  they  would  not  return 
sometimes  until  night  had  fallen.  Worse  than  that,  by 
his  now  continuous  withdrawal  from  the  life  of  the  Rec- 
tory he  must  have  disquieted  her  family.  He  saw  that 
they  were  becoming  anxious  about  Pauline,  but  for  that 
very  reason  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  mitigate  a  soli- 
tary doubt  of  theirs.  Even  to  talk  about  her  in  the  light- 
est way  was  now  become  an  outrage  upon  the  seclusion 
of  their  joint  life.  Such  a  conversation  as  that  with  Mar- 
garet about  the  silver  photograph-frame  was  now  unim- 
aginable. What  right  had  any  one  to  know  even  what 
picture  of  Pauline  burned  upon  his  wall  in  the  night-time? 
At  first  Pauline  herself,  when  the  memory  of  the  shock 
her  mother's  words  had  been  to  her  died  out,  tried  to 
justify  the  attitude  of  guardianship.  She  would  explain 
to  Guy  how,  ever  since  she  could  remember,  her  mother 
and  sisters  had  treated  her  with  this  vigilance.  They  had, 
as  she  said,  always  so  much  adored  her  that  it  was  natural 

241 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

for  them  to  be  unable  at  once  to  relinquish  entirely  to 
some  one  else  the  complete  possession  of  her.  Yet  Guy 
must  not  be  jealous,  because  she  told  them  none  of  her 
secrets  now;  indeed,  she  was  distressed  at  the  thought  of 
how  far  outside  her  confidence  they  reproachfully  es- 
teemed themselves.  Her  love  for  him  had  severely 
shaken  the  perfect  unity  of  their  immemorial  life  together, 
and  he  must  be  generous  and  understand  how  gradual 
would  have  to  be  their  renunciation  of  her  to  him.  Guy, 
however,  would  not  allow  Pauline  to  have  regrets  like 
this.  The  most  trivial  consideration  of  her  family  aroused 
his  jealousy;  and  when  Mrs.  Grey  said  she  thought  it 
would  be  better  if  the  old  rule  of  seeing  Pauline  only  twice 
a  week  came  into  force  again,  Guy  was  determined  that 
Pauline  should  resent  the  step  as  bitterly  as  he  resented 
it.  All  the  time  he  was  with  her  he  would  be  lamenting 
the  briefness  of  their  permitted  intercourse,  and  since 
the  weather  was  now  so  wet  that  even  they  could  not 
reasonably  claim  beneath  such  streaming  skies  the  right 
to  abscond  into  deserted  country,  November  shed  a 
gloom  upon  their  love. 

On  the  days  when  Guy  did  come  to  the  Rectory,  no 
one  attempted  to  rob  them  of  their  privacy;  they  were 
always  granted  the  nursery  to  themselves,  and  even  some- 
times they  had  tea  there  together,  if  visitors  came,  so  that 
the  privilege  of  their  few  hours  should  not  be  infringed. 
Nevertheless,  the  old  sense  of  time  and  the  world  at  their 
service  was  lost.  The  dull  November  dusk  came  swiftly 
on;  and  out  in  the  passage  the  cuckoo  with  maddening 
reiteration  proclaimed  each  fleeting  fifteen  minutes. 
Often  Guy  was  asked  to  dinner,  but  the  old  pleasure  was 
mostly  gone,  for  in  the  evening  he  and  Pauline  were 
not  expected  to  retire  by  themselves;  and  there  was  al- 
ways an  implied  reproach  for  his  influence  when  she 
refused  to  play  her  violin.  Then  there  came  a  dreadful 
day,  because  some  cousins  had  arrived  to  stay  at  the 
Rectory;  for  these  two  girls,  like  every  one  else,  had 

242 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

been  accustomed  to  adore  Pauline,  and  so  were  deter- 
mined to  take  an  extreme  interest  in  her  engagement. 

"We  seem  to  have  a  ghastly  lure  for  them,"  Guy 
groaned  in  exasperation,  when  Pauline  had  managed  at 
last  to  secure  the  nursery  for  themselves. 

"Guy,  they're  only  staying  a  week." 

"Well,"  he  protested,  "and  for  me  to  stay  with  you 
a  week  takes  months  of  these  miserable  little  hours  we 
have.  Oh,  Pauline,  I  must  see  more  of  you!" 

Then  back  came  the  adoring  cousins,  and  Guy  felt  that 
no  torture  he  could  imagine  was  bad  enough  for  them. 
Their  cordiality  to  him  was  so  great  that  he  had  to  be 
superficially  pleasant;  and,  as  smile  after  smile  was  wrung 
from  him,  by  the  end  of  the  afternoon  he  felt  sick  with 
the  agony  his  politeness  had  cost. 

"Hurry  and  dress!  hurry!  hurry!"  he  begged  Pauline 
in  a  whisper  when  the  gong  sounded.  "Let  us  at  least 
have  five  minutes  alone  before  dinner  comes  and  I  must 

go." 

Pauline  was  scarcely  five  minutes  in  coming  down 
again,  but  Guy  counted  each  tick  of  the  clock  with  des- 
perate heartsickness. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling,"  he  said,  when  she  was 
held  in  the  so  dearly  longed  for,  the  so  terribly  brief  em- 
brace. "I  cannot  bear  the  torment  of  to-day." 

She  tried  to  soothe  him;  but  Guy  had  reached  the 
depths  and  this  relief  after  such  effort  was  almost  too 
late. 

"Pauline,  listen,"  he  said,  quickly.  "You  must  come 
and  say  good  night  to  me  in  the  garden.  Do  you  hear? 
You  must!  You  must!  I  sha'n't  sleep  unless  you  do. 
You  must!" 

"Guy,"  she  murmured,  "I  couldn't." 

"You  must!  Promise  .  .  .  you  must.  Come  down  and 
say  good  night  to  me  on  the  lawn.  I  shall  wait  there  all 
night.  I  shall  wait.  .  .  ." 

The  cuckoo  burst  out  to  cry  seven  o'clock. 

243 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"You  must  come.    You  must  come.     Promise." 

"Perhaps,"  she  whispered,  faintly.  Then  she  said  she 
could  not. 

Guy  went  to  the  door. 

"Remember,  I  have  not  kissed  you  good  night,"  he 
proclaimed,  solemnly.  "And  now  I'm  going.  I  shall 
wait  from  eleven  o'clock,  and  stay  all  night  until  you  have 
kissed  me." 

"Oh,  but  Guy  .  .  ." 

"To-night,"  he  said.     "You  promise?" 

"Guy,  if  I  dare,  if  I  dare." 

There  were  footsteps  in  the  passage.  He  fled  across 
the  room,  kissed  her  momentarily  and  hurried  out,  say- 
ing good-by  to  the  cousins,  as  he  passed  them,  with  a 
kind  of  exultant  affection. 

Outside,  the  November  night  hung  humid  and  oppres- 
sive; Guy,  looking  up,  felt  rain  falling  softly  yet  with 
gathering  intensity,  and  he  lingered  a  few  moments  in 
the  drive,  held  by  the  whispering  blackness.  Behind 
him  the  lamplight  of  the  Rectory  windows  seemed  for 
the  moment  sad  and  unattainable  and  gave  him  the 
fancy  he  was  drifting  away  from  a  friendly  shore.  Then 
suddenly  he  marched  away  along  the  drive,  content;  for 
the  thought  of  "to-night,"  which  latterly  had  often 
brought  such  a  presentiment  of  loneliness,  now  sounded 
upon  his  imagination  like  the  rapture  of  a  nightingale. 

Flashers  Mead  had  never  appeared  so  desirable  as  now, 
when  it  was  the  prelude  to  such  an  enterprise  as  this  of 
consecrating  with  a  last  embrace  the  rain  and  gloom  of 
November.  If  he  had  any  hesitation  about  the  Tightness 
or  even,  setting  probity  aside,  about  the  prudence  of  such 
an  action,  he  justified  himself  with  romantic  reasons;  and 
if  he  was  driven  by  conscience  to  an  ultimate  defense,  he 
justified  himself  with  the  exceptional  circumstances  that 
gave  him  a  sanction  to  accept  from  Pauline  this  sacrifice 
of  her  traditions.  Impulses  to  consider  what  he  was  doing 
were  easily  dismissed;  indeed,  before  he  reached  his  house 

244 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

there  was  not  one  left.  Inside,  the  warmth  and  comfort 
of  Flashers  Mead  were  additional  incentives  to  prosecute 
his  resolve;  every  gleaming  book,  the  breathing  of  the 
dog  upon  the  mat  before  the  fire,  the  gentle  purr  of  the 
lamp,  all  seemed  to  demand  that  voluptuous  renunciation 
which  would  later  urge  him  forth  again  into  the  night. 
That  it  would  probably  be  raining  was  not  to  prove  an 
obstacle;  Pauline  would  be  more  sure  to  come  if  she 
thought  he  were  standing  outside  in  the  rain.  It  was  a 
second  Eve  of  St.  Agnes;  and  Guy  went  across  to  his  shelf 
and  took  down  Keats.  He  had  come  to  the  knights  and 
ladies  praying  in  their  dumb  oratories,  when  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  front  door,  and  his  mind  leaped  to  the  thought 
that  Pauline  might  have  sent  a  note  by  Birdwood  to  pre- 
vent his  coming  to-night.  The  knock  sounded  again,  and 
as  Miss  Peasey  was  evidently  too  deeply  immersed  in 
The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  her  vespertine  lectionary,  to  pay 
heed  to  visitors  at  this  hour  of  nine  o'clock,  he  must  go 
down  and  open  the  door  himself. 

"Are  we  disturbing  you?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Brydone,  and  with  Willsher  in  his 
wake  he  came  into  the  hall. 

"Charlie  and  I  have  made  several  shots  to  find 
you  in,  but,  of  course,  we  know  you're  a  busy  man 
nowadays." 

"Go  on  up-stairs,  will  you?"  said  Guy,  making  a 
tremendous  effort  to  appear  hospitable.  "I'll  dig  out 
the  whisky." 

He  went  along  and  shouted  in  Miss  Peasey's  ear  what 
was  wanted.  She  looked  up  as  if  it  were  Apollyon  him- 
self come  to  affront  her  holy  abstraction. 

"I  think  there's  some  left  from  that  bottle  we  got  in 
August.  ...  I  shall  lay  it  on  the  mat,"  she  told  him. 

Guy  nodded  encouragingly  and  went  up-stairs  to  join 
his  guests. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you'll  be  soon  having  a  missus  in 
charge  here,"  said  Brydone,  heartily. 

245 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Willsher  hummed  "Bachelor  Boys"  as  a  contributory 
echo  of  the  question. 

"Oh  no;  we're  not  getting  married  at  once,  you  know," 
Guy  explained. 

"Well,  you're  quite  right,"  Brydone  declared,  heartily. 
"After  all,  being  close  at  hand  like  this,  you're  not  much 
likely  to  draw  a  blank  in  the  lottery." 

"Marriage  is  a  lottery,  isn't  it?"  said  Guy,  with  polite 
sarcasm. 

"Rather,"  sighed  Willsher.     "Terrific!" 

"I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  be  looking  round  preparatory 
to  getting  married  in  two  or  three  years'  time,"  Brydone 
added.  "Well,  you  see,  after  Christmas  I  shall  be  think- 
ing about  my  finals,  and  then  I'm  going  to  come  in  as 
the  old  man's  partner.  Country  people  like  it  best  if 
a  doctor's  married.  No  doubt  about  that,  is  there, 
Charlie?" 

The  solicitor's  son  agreed  it  was  indubitable. 

"Of  course,  if  I  had  the  cash  to  hang  on  in  Harley 
Street  for  ten  years  as  a  specialist,  it  would  be  another 
matter.  But  I  can't,  so  there  it  is." 

Even  this  fellow  had  his  dreams,  Guy  thought;  even 
he  would  make  acquaintance  with  thwarted  ambitions. 

"Been  doing  anything  with  a  rod  lately?"  asked  Will- 
sher, whose  pastime,  when  he  could  not  be  standing  in 
action  on  the  river's  bank,  was  always  to  steer  a  con- 
versation in  the  direction  of  anglers'  gossip. 

"No,  not  lately,"  said  Guy,  "though  I  knocked  down 
a  lot  of  apples  with  one  last  month." 

"Ha-ha,  that's  good!"  Brydone  ejaculated.  "That's 
very  good,  Hazlewood.  That's  good,  isn't  it,  Charlie?" 

"Awfully  good,"  agreed  the  angler. 

Their  appreciation  seemed  perfectly  genuine,  and  Guy 
was  touched  by  the  readiness  of  them  to  be  entertained 
by  his  lame  wit. 

"I  mustn't  forget  to  tell  the  old  man  that,"  Brydone 
chuckled.  "He's  always  digging  at  me  over  the  fish. 

246 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

Done  anything  with  a  rod  lately?  I  knocked  down  a  lot 
of  apples  last  month.  Your  governor  will  like  that, 
Charlie!" 

Guy  heard  the  clink  of  a  tray  deposited  cautiously  on 
the  floor  of  the  passage  outside.  He  allowed  Miss  Peasey 
time  to  retreat  before  he  opened  the  door,  because  it  was 
one  of  the  clauses  in  her  charter  that  she  was  never,  as 
a  lady  housekeeper,  to  be  asked  to  bring  a  tray  into  a 
room  when  any  one  but  Guy  was  present.  He  hoped  that 
after  they  had  drunk  his  visitors  would  depart;  but,  alas! 
the  unintended  charm  of  his  conversation  seemed  likely 
to  prolong  their  stay. 

"Rabelais,"  Brydone  read  slowly,  as  he  saw  the  volumes 
on  the  shelves.  "That's  a  bit  thick,  isn't  it?" 

"In  quantity  or  quality,  do  you  mean?"  asked  Guy. 

"I've  heard  that's  the  thickest  book  ever  written,"  said 
Brydone. 

"Do  you  read  old  French  easily?"  asked  Guy. 

"Oh,  it's  in  old  French,  is  it?"  said  Brydone,  in  a  dis- 
appointed voice.  "That  would  biff  me." 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  room,  a  silence  that  seemed  to 
symbolize  the  "biffing"  of  the  doctor's  son  by  old  French. 
Willsher  took  the  opportunity  to  steer  the  conversation 
back  to  fish,  and  ten  o'clock  struck  in  the  middle  of  an 
argument  between  him  and  his  friend  over  the  merits  of 
two  artificial  flies.  Guy  must  be  on  the  Rectory  lawn  by 
eleven  o'clock,  and  he  began  to  be  anxious,  so  animated 
was  the  discussion,  about  the  departure  of  these  well- 
meaning  intruders.  He  did  not  want  to  plunge  straight 
from  their  company  into  the  glorious  darkness  that  would 
hold  Pauline;  and  he  eyed  the  volume  of  Keats  lying  face 
downward  on  the  table,  hoping  he  would  be  allowed  to 
come  back  to  the  knights  and  ladies  praying  in  their  dumb 
oratories,  while  he  thought  with  a  thrill  of  the  moment 
when  he  should  be  able  to  read: 

And  they  are  gone;    ay,  ages  long  ago 

These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 

247 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"If  you  can't  get  a  chub  any  other  way,  you  can  some- 
times get  him  with  a  bit  of  bacon,"  Willsher  was  saying. 
"And  I  know  a  fellow  who  caught  one  of  those  whoppers 
under  Marston's  Mill  with  a  cherry.  Fact,  I  assure  you." 

"I  know  a  man  at  Oldbridge  who  caught  a  four-pounder 
with  a  bumblebee." 

"I  caught  a  six-pounder  at  Oxford  with  a  mouse's  head 
myself,"  Guy  declared. 

The  friends  looked  at  him  in  the  admiration  and  envy 
with  which  anglers  welcome  a  pleasant,  companionable 
sort  of  lie.  It  was  a  bad  move,  for  it  seemed  as  if  by 
that  lie  he  had  drawn  closer  the  bonds  of  sympathy  be- 
tween himself  and  his  guests.  They  visibly  warmed  to 
his  company,  for  Brydone  at  once  invited  himself  to  an- 
other "tot"  and  was  obviously  settling  down  to  a  com- 
petitive talk  about  big  fish;  while  Willsher's  first  shyness 
turned  to  familiarity,  so  completely  indeed  that  he  asked 
if  Guy  would  mind  his  moving  the  furniture  in  order  to 
try  to  explain  to  that  fathead  Brydone  the  exact  promon- 
tory of  the  Greenrush  where  he  had  caught  thirty  trout 
in  an  hour  when  the  mayfly  was  up  two  years  ago. 

Half  past  ten  struck  from  the  church  tower,  and  Guy 
became  desperate.  There  was  nothing  he  hated  so  much 
as  asking  people  to  go,  which  was  one  reason  why  he 
always  discouraged  them  at  the  beginning;  but  it  really 
seemed  as  if  he  must  bring  himself  to  the  point  of  asking 
Brydone  and  Willsher  to  leave  him  to  his  work.  He  de- 
cided to  allow  them  until  a  quarter  to  eleven.  The  min- 
utes dragged  along,  and  when  the  quarter  sounded  Guy 
said  he  was  sorry,  but  that  he  was  very  much  afraid  he 
would  have  to  work  now. 

"Right  oh,"  said  Brydone.  "We'll  tootle  off."  But  it 
took  ten  minutes  to  get  them  out  of  the  house,  and  when 
at  last  they  disappeared  into  the  mazy  garden  Guy  was 
in  a  fume  of  anxiety  about  his  tryst.  He  could  not  now 
go  round  by  Rectory  Lane,  as  he  had  intended  at  first. 
No  doubt  Brydone  and  Willsher  would  stay  talking  half 

248 


ANOTHER   AUTUMN 

an  hour  on  the  bridge,  for  the  rain  had  stopped  and  they 
had  given  the  impression  of  having  the  night  before  them. 
In  fact,  Brydone  had  once  definitely  announced  that  the 
night  was  still  young.  Yet  in  a  way  the  fact  of  their 
nearness  and  of  his  having  to  avoid  them  added  a  zest 
to  the  adventure. 

How  dark  it  was  and  how  heavily  the  trees  dripped  in  the 
orchard !  Guy  pulled  the  canoe  from  the  shed  and  dragged 
it  squeaking  over  the  wet  grass;  not  even  he  in  the  exalta- 
tion of  the  moment  was  going  to  swim  the  Hellespont. 

When  he  was  in  the  canoe  and  driving  it  with  silent 
strokes  along  the  straight  black  stream;  when  the  lan- 
tern was  put  out  and  the  darkness  was  at  first  so  thick 
that  like  the  water  it  seemed  to  resist  the  sweep  of  his 
paddle,  Guy  could  no  longer  imagine  that  Pauline  would 
venture  out.  He  became  oppressed  by  the  impenetrable 
and  humid  air,  and  he  began  to  long  for  rain  to  fall  as  if  it 
would  reassure  him  that  nature  in  such  an  annihilation  of 
form  was  still  alive.  Now  he  had  swung  past  the  over- 
hanging willows  of  the  churchyard;  his  eyes,  grown  ac- 
customed to  the  darkness,  discovered  against  a  vague  sky 
the  vague  bulk  of  the  church,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  he 
could  be  sure  that  he  was  come  to  the  Rectory  paddock. 
He  was  wet  to  the  knees,  and  his  feet,  sagging  in  the  grass, 
seemed  to  make  a  most  prodigious  noise  with  their 
gurgling. 

Guy  was  too  early  when  he  crept  over  the  lawn,  for 
there  were  still  lights  in  all  the  upper  windows,  and  he 
withdrew  to  the  plantation,  where  he  waited  in  rapt 
patience  while  the  branches  dripped  and  pattered,  dripped 
and  pattered  ceaselessly.  One  by  one  the  lights  had 
faded  out,  but  still  he  must  not  signal  to  Pauline.  How 
should  he,  after  all,  make  known  to  her  his  presence  on 
that  dark  lawn?  Scarcely  would  she  perceive  from  her 
window  his  shadowy  form.  He  must  not  even  whisper; 
he  must  not  strike  a  match.  Suddenly  a  light  crossed  his 
vision,  and  he  started  violently  before  he  realized  that  it 

17  249 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

was  only  a  glow-worm  moving  with  laborious  progress 
along  the  damp  edge  of  the  lawn.  Black  indeed  was  the 
hour  when  a  glow-worm  belated  on  this  drear  night  of 
the  year's  decline  could  so  alarm  him.  For  a  while  he 
watched  the  creeping  phosphorescence  and  wondered  at 
it  in  kindly  fellowship,  thinking  how  like  it  was  to  a  human 
lover,  so  small  and  solitary  in  this  gigantic  gloom.  Then 
he  began  to  pick  it  up  and,  as  it  moved  across  his  hand 
and  gave  it  with  the  wan  fire  a  ghostly  semblance,  he  re- 
solved to  signal  with  this  lamp  to  Pauline. 

Midnight  crashed  its  tale  from  the  belfry,  and  nowhere 
in  the  long  house  was  there  any  light.  There  was  noth- 
ing now  in  the  world  but  himself  and  this  glow-worm 
wandering  across  his  hand.  He  moved  nearer  to  the 
house  and  stood  beneath  Pauline's  window;  surely  she 
was  leaning  out;  surely  that  was  her  shadow  tremulous 
on  the  inspissate  air.  Guy  waved,  and  the  pale  light 
moving  to  and  fro  seemed  to  exact  an  answer,  for  some- 
thing fell  at  his  feet,  and  by  the  glow-worm's  melancholy 
radiance  he  read  "now"  on  a  piece  of  paper.  Gratefully 
he  set  the  insect  down  to  vanish  upon  its  own  amorous 
path  into  the  murk.  Not  a  tree  quivered,  not  a  raindrop 
slipped  from  a  blade  of  grass,  but  Guy  held  out  his  arms 
to  clasp  his  long-awaited  Pauline.  The  "now"  prolonged 
its  duration  into  hours,  it  seemed;  and  then  when  she 
did  come  she  was  in  his  arms  before  he  knew  by  her  step 
or  by  the  rustle  of  her  dress  that  she  was  coming.  She 
was  in  his  arms  as  though  like  a  moth  she  had  floated 
upon  a  flower. 

Their  good  night  was  kissed  in  a  moment,  and  she  was 
gone  like  a  moth  that  cannot  stay  upon  the  flower  it  visits. 

Guy  waited  until  he  thought  he  saw  her  leaning  from 
her  window  once  more.  Then  he  drew  close  to  the  wall 
of  the  house  and  strained  his  eyes  to  catch  the  farewell  of 
her  hand.  As  he  looked  up  the  rain  began  to  fall  again; 
and  in  an  ecstasy  he  glided  back  to  Plashers  Mead,  adoring 
the  drench  of  his  clothes  and  the  soft  sighing  of  the  rain. 

250 


ANOTHER    WINTER 


DECEMBER 

IN  the  first  elation  of  having  been  able  to  prove  to  Guy 
how  exclusively  she  loved  him,  Pauline  had  no  mis- 
givings about  the  effect  upon  herself  of  that  dark  descent 
into  the  garden.  It  was  only  when  Guy,  urging  the  suc- 
cess of  what  almost  seemed  disturbingly  to  state  itself 
as  an  experiment,  begged  her  to  go  farther  and  take  the 
negligible  risk  of  coming  out  with  him  on  the  river  at 
night,  that  she  began  to  doubt  if  she  had  acted  well  in 
yielding  that  first  small  favor.  The  problem,  that  she 
must  leave  herself  to  determine  without  a  hint  of  its 
existence  to  any  one  outside,  stuck  unresolved  at  the  back 
of  her  conscience,  whence  in  moments  of  depression  it 
would,  as  it  were,  leap  forth  to  assail  her  peace  of  mind. 
She  was  positive,  however,  that  the  precedent  had  been 
unwise  from  whatever  point  of  view  regarded,  and  for  a 
while  she  resisted  earnestly  the  arguments  Guy  evoked 
about  the  privileges  conferred  on  lovers  by  the  customary 
judgment  of  the  world.  Nevertheless,  in  the  end  she 
did  surrender  anew  to  his  persistence,  and  on  two  nights 
of  dim  December  moonlight  she  escaped  from  the  house 
and  floated  with  him  unhappily  upon  the  dark  stream, 
turning  pale  at  every  lean  branch  that  stretched  out 
from  the  bank,  at  every  shadow,  and  at  every  sound  of 
distant  dogs'  barking. 

Guy  would  not  understand  the  falseness  of  this  pleas- 
ure and,  treating  with  scorn  her  alarm,  he  used  to  invent 
excuses  by  which  she  would  be  able  to  account  for  the 
emptiness  of  the  room  in  the  event  of  her  absence  being 

253 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

discovered.  The  mere  prospect  of  such  deceit  distressed 
Pauline,  and  when  she  realized  that  even  already  by  doing 
what  she  had  done  deceit  had  been  set  on  foot,  she  told 
him  she  could  not  bear  the  self-reproach  which  followed. 
It  was  true,  as  she  admitted,  that  there  was  really  nothing 
to  regret  except  the  unhappiness  the  discovery  of  her 
action  would  bring  to  her  family,  but,  of  course,  the  chief 
effect  of  this  was  that  Guy  became  even  more  jealous  of 
her  sisters'  influence.  The  disaccord  between  him  and 
them  was  making  visible  progress,  and  much  of  love's  joy 
was  being  swallowed  up  in  the  sadness  this  brought  to 
her.  She  wished  now  that  she  had  said  nothing  about 
the  rebuke  she  had  earned  for  that  unfortunate  afternoon 
in  the  Abbey.  Margaret  and  Monica  had  both  tried  hard 
ever  since  to  atone  for  the  part  they  played,  and  having 
forgiven  them  and  accepted  the  justice  of  their  point  of 
view,  Pauline  was  distressed  that  Guy  should  treat  them 
now  practically  as  avowed  enemies.  She  might  have 
known  that  happiness  such  as  hers  could  not  last,  and  she 
reproached  herself  for  the  many  times  she  had  triumphed 
in  the  thought  of  the  superiority  of  their  love  to  any  other 
she  had  witnessed.  She  deserved  this  anxiety  and  this 
doubt  as  a  punishment  for  the  way  in  which  she  had  often 
scoffed  at  the  dullness  of  other  people  who  were  in  love. 
Marriage,  which  at  first  had  been  only  a  delightful  dream 
the  remoteness  of  which  did  not  matter,  was  now  ap- 
pearing the  only  remedy  for  the  ills  that  were  gathering 
round  Guy  and  her.  As  soon  as  she  had  set  her  heart 
upon  this  panacea  she  began  to  watch  Guy's  work  from 
the  point  of  view  of  its  subservience  to  that  end.  She 
was  anxious  that  he  should  work  particularly  hard,  and 
she  became  very  sensitive  to  any  implication  of  laziness 
in  the  casual  opinion  that  Margaret  or  Monica  would 
sometimes  express.  Guy  was  obviously  encouraged  by 
the  interest  she  took,  and  for  a  while  in  the  new  preoccu- 
pation of  working  together  as  it  were  for  a  common  aim 
the  strain  of  their  restricted  converse  was  allayed. 

254 


ANOTHER    WINTER 

One  day  early  in  December  Guy  announced  that  really 
he  thought  he  had  now  enough  poems  to  make  a  volume, 
news  which  roused  Pauline  to  the  greatest  excitement 
and  which  on  the  same  evening  she  triumphantly  an- 
nounced to  her  family  at  dinner. 

"My  dears,  his  book  is  finished!  And,  Father,  he  has 
translated  some  poems  of  that  man — that  Latin  creature 
you  gave  him  on  his  birthday." 

"Propertius  is  difficult,"  said  the  Rector.  "Very  diffi- 
cult." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  so  glad  he's  difficult,  because  that  will 
make  it  all  the  more  valuable  if  Guy  ...  or  won't  it?  Oh, 
don't  let  me  talk  nonsense;  but  really,  darlings,  aren't 
you  all  glad  that  his  book  is  finished?" 

"We'll  drink  the  poet's  health,"  said  the  Rector. 

"Oh,  Father,  I  must  kiss  you.  .  .  .  Aren't  you  pleased 
Guy  appreciated  your  present?" 

"Now,  Pauline,  you're  sweeping  your  napkin  down  on 
the  floor  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  but,  Mother,  I  must  kiss  Francis  for  being  so 
sweet." 

"He  promised  to  show  me  the  poems,"  said  Margaret. 
"But  Guy  doesn't  like  me  any  more." 

"Oh  yes,  Margaret,  he  does.  Oh,  Margaret,  he  really 
does.  And  if  you  say  that,  I  shall  have  to  break  a  secret. 
He's  written  two  poems  about  you." 

Margaret  flushed. 

"Has  he?  Well,  he  must  certainly  show  them  to  me 
first  or  I  shall  veto  the  publication." 

"Oh,  darlings,"  Pauline  cried,  "I  am  happy  to-night! 
The  famousness  of  Guy  presently  .  .  .  and  oh,  I  forgot  to 
tell  you  something  so  touching  that  happened  this  morn- 
ing. What  do  you  think?  Miss  Verney  consulted  me  as 
to  whether  I  thought  it  was  time  she  began  to  wear 
caps." 

"Guy  ought  to  write  a  poem  about  that,"  said 
Monica. 

255 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Oh  no,  Monica,  you're  not  to  laugh  at  poor  Miss 
Verney.  I  must  tell  her  to-morrow  morning  about  Guy's 
book.  She  so  appreciates  greatness." 

It  was  a  delightful  evening,  and  Pauline  in  her  content- 
ment felt  that  she  was  back  in  the  heart  of  that  old 
Rectory  life,  so  far  did  the  confidence  in  Guy's  justifica- 
tion of  himself  enable  her  to  leave  behind  the  shadows  of 
the  past  two  months,  and  most  of  all  those  miserable 
escapades  in  the  watery  December  moonlight. 

"A  book!  Dear  me,  how  important!"  said  Miss  Verney 
when  next  morning  Pauline  was  telling  her  the  news. 
"Quite  an  important  event  for  Wychford,  I'm  sure.  I 
must  write  to  the  Stores  and  order  a  copy  at  once  ...  or 
perhaps,  as  a  local  celebrity  .  .  .  yes,  I  think  it  would 
be  kinder  to  patronize  our  Wychford  stationer." 

"But,  Miss  Verney,  it's  not  published  yet,  you  know. 
We  expect  it  won't  be  published  before  March  at  the 
earliest." 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  met  an  author,"  said  Miss  Verney, 
meditatively.  "You  see,  my  father  being  a  sailor  .  .  . 
Really,  an  author  in  Wychford !  .  .  .  Dear  me,  it's  quite  an 
important  occasion." 

Pauline  thought  she  would  devote  the  afternoon  to 
writing  the  good  news  to  Richard,  and  Margaret,  hearing 
of  her  intention,  announced  surprisingly  that  Richard 
was  coming  back  in  April  for  two  or  three  months. 

"Oh,  Margaret,  and  you  never  told  me." 

"Well,  I  didn't  think  you  took  much  interest  in  Rich- 
ard nowadays.  He  asked  what  had  happened  to  you." 

"I  am  glad  he's  coming  back,  Margaret.  But  oh,  do 
tell  me  if  you  are  going  to  marry  him." 

Margaret  would  not  answer,  but  Pauline,  all  of  whose 
hopes  were  roseate  to-day,  decided  that  Margaret  had 
really  made  up  her  mind  at  last,  and  she  went  up-stairs 
full  of  penitence  for  her  neglect  of  Richard,  but  deter- 
mined to  make  up  for  it  by  the  good  news  she  would 
send  both  of  herself  and  of  him. 

356 


ANOTHER   WINTER 

WYCHFORD  RECTORY,  OXON, 

December. 

MY  DEAR  RICHARD, — I  am  sorry  that  I've  not  written  to  you 
for  so  long,  but  I  know  you'll  forgive  me,  because  I  have  to  think 
about  so  many  things.  Margaret  has  just  told  me  you  are 
coming  back  in  April.  Be  sure  it  is  April,  because  my  birthday 
is  on  the  first  of  May,  you  know,  and  you  must  be  in  England 
for  my  birthday.  Margaret  looked  very  happy  when  she  said 
you  were  coming  home.  Richard,  I  am  sure  that  everything 
will  be  perfect.  Guy's  book  is  finished,  and  perhaps  it  will  be 
published  in  March.  If  it's  published  early  in  March,  I  will 
send  you  a  copy  so  that  you  can  read  it  on  the  steamer  coming 
home.  There  are  two  poems  about  Margaret,  who  was  very 
sympathetic  with  Guy  over  me!  That's  one  of  the  reasons 
why  I'm  sure  that  everything  will  be  perfect  for  you.  Guy 
wants  to  meet  you  very  much.  He  says  he  admires  action. 
That's  because  I  told  him  about  your  bridge.  Your  father  and 
mother  are  always  very  sweet  to  us  when  we  go  and  have  tea 
with  them.  Miss  Verney  is  going  to  wear  caps.  Birdwood 
asked  if  you  would  bring  him  back  a  Goorcha's — is  that  the  way 
to  spell  it? — a  Goorcha's  knife  because  Godbold  won't  believe 
something  he  told  him.  Birdwood  said  you  were  a  grand  young 
chap  and  were  wasted  out  in  India.  Father  won  a  prize  at 
Vincent  Square  for  a  yellow  gladiolus.  It's  been  christened — 
now  I've  forgotten  what,  but  after  somebody  who  had  a  golden 
throat.  Guy's  dog  is  a  lamb.  A  merry  Christmas,  and  lots 
of  love  from 

Your  loving 

PAULINE. 

Pauline  looked  forward  to  Richard's  return  because  she 
hoped  that  if  Margaret  married  him  her  own  marriage  to 
Guy  would  begin  to  appear  more  feasible,  it  being  at 
present  almost  too  difficult  to  imagine  anything  like  mar- 
riage exploding  upon  the  quietude  of  the  Rectory.  The 
return  of  Richard,  from  the  moment  she  eyed  it  in  relation 
to  her  own  affairs,  assumed  an  importance  it  had  never 
possessed  before  when  it  was  only  an  ideal  of  childish 
sentiment,  and  Pauline  made  of  it  a  foundation  on  which 
she  built  towering  hopes. 

?57 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Guy,  as  soon  as  he  had  decided  to  publish  his  first  vol- 
ume, instantly  acquired  doubts  about  the  prudence  of  the 
step,  and  he  rather  hurt  Pauline's  feelings  by  wanting 
Michael  Fane  to  come  and  give  him  the  support  of  his 
judgment. 

"I  told  you  I  should  never  be  enough,"  she  said,  sadly. 

He  consoled  her  with  various  explanations  of  his  re- 
liance upon  a  friend's  opinion,  but  he  would  not  give  up 
his  idea  of  getting  him,  and  he  wrote  letter  after  letter 
until  he  was  able  to  announce  that  for  a  week-end  in  mid- 
December  Michael  was  actually  pledged. 

"And  I  do  want  you  to  like  him,"  said  Guy,  earnestly. 

Pauline  promised  that  of  course  she  would  like  him,  but 
in  her  heart  she  assured  herself  she  never  would.  It  was 
cerulean  Winter  weather  when  the  friend  arrived,  and 
Pauline,  who  had  latterly  taken  up  the  habit  of  often 
coming  into  the  churchyard  to  talk  for  a  while  with  Guy 
across  the  severing  stream,  abandoned  the  churchyard 
throughout  that  week-end.  Guy  was  vexed  by  her  with- 
drawal and  vowed  that  in  consequence  all  the  pleasure 
of  the  visit  had  been  spoiled. 

"For  I've  been  rushing  in  and  out  all  the  time  to  see  if 
you  were  not  in  sight,  and  I'm  often  absolutely  boorish 
to  Fane,  who,  by  the  way,  loves  your  Rectory  bedroom 
so  much." 

"Has  he  condescended  to  let  your  book  appear?" 
asked  Pauline. 

"Oh,  rather;  he  says  that  everything  I've  included  is 
quite  all  right.  In  fact,  he's  a  much  less  severe  critic 
than  I  am  myself." 

Pauline  had  made  up  her  mind,  if  possible,  to  avoid  a 
meeting  with  Michael,  but  on  Monday  she  relented,  and 
they  were  introduced  to  each  other.  The  colloquy  on 
that  turquoise  morning,  when  the  earth  smelled  fresh  and 
the  grass  in  the  orchard  was  so  vernally  green,  did  not 
help  Pauline  to  know  much  about  Michael  Fane,  save 
that  he  was  not  so  tall  as  Guy,  and  that  somehow  he  gave 

2S8 


ANOTHER    WINTER 

the  impression  of  regarding  life  more  like  a  portrait  by 
Vandyck  than  a  human  being.  He  was  cold,  she  settled, 
and  she,  as  usual  shy  and  blushful,  could  only  have 
seemed  stupid  to  him. 

That  afternoon,  when  the  disturbing  friend  had  gone, 
Pauline  and  Guy  went  for  a  walk. 

"He  admired  you  tremendously." 

"Did  he?"  she  made  listless  answer. 

"He  said  you  were  a  fairy's  child,  and  he  also  said  you 
really  were  a  wild  rose." 

"What  an  exaggerated  way  of  talking  about  somebody 
whom  he  has  seen  for  only  a  moment." 

"Pauline,"  said  Guy,  affectionately  rallying  her, 
"aren't  you  being  rather  naughty — rather  wilful,  really? 
Didn't  you  like  Michael?" 

"Guy,  you  can't  expect  me  to  know  whether  I  liked 
him  in  a  minute.  He  made  me  feel  shyer  than  even  most 
people  do." 

"Well,  let's  talk  about  the  book  instead,"  said  Guy. 
"What  color  shall  the  binding  be?" 

"What  color  did  he  suggest?" 

"I  see  you're  determined  to  be  horrid  about  my  poor, 
harmless  Michael." 

"Well,  why  must  he  be  brought  down  like  this  to  ap- 
prove of  your  book  ?" 

"Oh,  he  has  good  taste,  and  besides  he's  interested  in 
you  and  me." 

"What  did  you  tell  him  about  us?"  Pauline  asked, 
sharply. 

"Nothing,  my  dearest,  nothing,"  said  Guy,  flinging  his 
stick  for  Bob  to  chase  over  the  furrows.  "At  least,"  he 
added,  turning  and  looking  down  at  her  with  eyebrows 
arched  in  pretended  despair  of  her  unreasonableness,  "I 
expect  I  bored  him  to  death  with  singing  your  praises." 

Still  Pauline  could  not  feel  charitable,  and  still  she 
could  not  smile  at  Guy. 

"Ah,  my  rose,"  he  said,  tenderly.  "Why  will  you 

259 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

droop?  Why  will  you  care  about  people  who  cannot 
matter  to  us?  My  own  Pauline,  can't  you  see  that  I 
called  in  a  third  person  because  I  dare  not  trust  myself 
now.  All  the  day  long,  all  the  night  long  you  are  my 
care.  I'm  so  dreadfully  anxious  to  justify  myself;  I  long 
for  assurance  at  every  step;  once  I  was  self-confident,  but 
I  can't  be  self-confident  any  longer.  Success  is  no  re- 
sponsibility in  itself,  but  now.  .  .  ." 

"It's  my  responsibility,"  cried  Pauline,  melting  to  him. 
"Oh,  forgive  me  for  being  jealous.  Darling  boy,  it's  just 
my  foolish  ignorance  that  makes  me  jealous  of  some  one 
who  can  give  you  more  than  I." 

"But  no  one  can!"  he  vowed.  "I  only  asked  Michael's 
advice  because  you  are  too  kind  a  judge.  My  success  is 
of  such  desperate  importance  to  us  two.  What  would  it 
have  mattered  before  I  met  you?  Now  my  failure  would 
.  .  .  Oh,  Pauline,  failure  is  too  horrible  to  think  of!" 

"As  if  you  could  fail,"  she  chided,  gently.  "And  if 
you  did  fail,  I  would  almost  be  glad,  because  I  would 
love  you  all  the  more." 

"Pauline,  would  you?" 

"Ah  no,  I  wouldn't,"  she  whispered.  "Because  I  could 
not  love  you  more  than  I  do  now." 

The  dog,  with  a  sigh,  dropped  his  stick;  he  was  become 
accustomed  to  these  interludes. 

"Bob  gives  us  up  as  hopeless,"  Guy  laughed. 

"I'm  not  a  bit  sympathetic,  you  jealous  dog,"  she  said. 
"Because  you  have  your  master  all  day  long." 

The  next  time  Guy  came  to  the  Rectory  he  brought 
with  him  the  manuscript,  so  that  Pauline  could  seal  it 
for  luck;  and  they  sat  in  the  nursery  while  Guy,  for  the 
last  enumeration,  turned  over  the  pages  one  by  one. 

"It  represents  so  much,"  he  said,  "and  it  looks  so 
little.  My  father  will  be  rather  surprised.  I  told  him  I 
should  wait  another  year.  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  have 
waited." 

"On  no,"  said  Pauline.  "Everything  else  is  waiting 
260 


ANOTHER   WINTER 

and  waiting.  It  makes  me  so  happy  to  think  of  these 
pages  flying  away  like  birds." 

"I  hope  they  won't  be  like  homing-pigeons,"  said  Guy. 
"It  will  be  rather  a  blow  if  William  Worrall  rejects  them." 

"Oh,  but  how  could  he  be  so  foolish?" 

"I  don't  think  he  will,  really,"  said  Guy.  "After  all,  a 
good  many  people  have  indorsed  the  first  half,  and  I'm 
positive  that  what  I've  written  here  is  better  than  that. 
I  rather  wish  I'd  finished  the  Eclogues,  though.  Do  you 
think  perhaps  I'd  better  wait,  after  all?" 

"Oh  no,  Guy,  don't  wait." 

So,  very  solicitously  the  poems  were  wrapped  up,  and 
when  they  were  tied  and  sealed  and  the  parcel  lay  ad- 
dressed upon  the  table,  Mrs.  Grey  with  Monica  and  Mar- 
garet came  in.  They  were  so  sympathetic  about  the  pos- 
sible adventures  in  sight  for  that  parcel,  and  Guy  was  so 
much  his  rather  self-conscious  self,  that  the  original  rela- 
tion between  him  and  the  family  seemed  perfectly  re- 
stored. Pauline  was  glad  to  belong  to  them,  and  in  her 
pride  of  Guy's  achievement  she  basked  in  their  simple 
affection,  thrilling  to  every  word  or  look  or  gesture  that 
confirmed  her  desire  of  the  cherished  accord  between  Guy 
and  the  others. 

"Now  I'm  sure  you'd  both  like  to  go  and  post  Guy's 
poems,"  Mrs.  Grey  exclaimed.  "Yes  .  .  .  charming  .  .  . 
to  go  and  post  them  yourselves." 

Pauline  waited  anxiously  for  a  moment,  because  of  late 
Guy  had  often  seemed  impatient  of  these  permissions 
granted  to  him  by  her  mother,  but  this  afternoon  he  was 
himself  and  full  of  the  shy  gratitude  that  made  her  won- 
der if  indeed  nearly  a  year  could  have  flown  by  since  their 
love  had  been  declared.  Dusk  was  falling  when  they 
reached  the  post-office. 

"Will  you  register  it,  Mr.  Hazlewood?"  asked  the  post- 
mistress. 

Guy  nodded,  and  the  parcel  left  their  hands;  in  silence 
they  watched  it  vanish  into  the  company  of  other  parcels 

261 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

that  carried  so  much  less;  then  back  they  came  through 
the  twilight  to  tea  at  the  Rectory,  both  feeling  as  if  the 
first  really  important  step  towards  marriage  had  been 
taken. 

"You  see,"  said  Guy,  "if  only  these  poems  of  mine  are 
well  received,  my  father  must  acknowledge  my  right  to 
be  here,  and  if  he  once  admits  that,  what  barrier  can 
there  be  to  our  wedding?" 

Pauline  told  him  how  much  during  the  last  month  the 
distant  prospect  of  their  marriage  had  begun  to  weigh 
upon  her,  but  now  since  that  parcel  had  been  left  at  the 
post-office,  she  said  she  would  always  talk  of  their  wed- 
ding because  that  was  such  a  much  less  remote  word  than 
marriage. 

"Come  out  to-night,"  said  Guy,  suddenly. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Guy,  don't  ask  me  again." 

He  was  penitent  at  once,  and  full  of  promises  never  to 
ask  her  again  to  do  anything  that  might  cause  an  in- 
stant's remorse.  They  had  reached  the  hall  of  the  Rec- 
tory, and  in  the  shadows  Pauline  held  him  to  her  heart, 
suddenly  caught  in  the  flood  of  tenderness  that  a  wife 
might  have  for  a  husband  to  whose  faults  she  could  be 
indulgent  by  the  measure  of  his  greater  virtues  kept,  as 
it  might  be,  for  her  alone. 


JANUARY 

GUY,  as  soon  as  he  had  sent  off  the  poems  to  a  pub- 
lisher, was  much  less  violently  driven  by  the  stress 
of  love,  which  latterly  had  urged  him  along  so  wayward 
a  course.  He  began  to  acquire  a  perspective  and  to  lose 
some  of  that  desperately  clinging  reliance  upon  present 
joys.  The  need  of  battling  against  an  uncertain  future 
had  brought  him  to  the  pitch  of  madness  at  the  thought 
of  the  hours  of  Pauline's  company  that  must  be  wasted; 
but  now  when  to  his  sanguine  hopes  marriage  presented 
itself  as  at  last  within  sight,  sometimes  even  seeming  as 
close  as  the  Fall  of  this  new  year,  he  was  anxious  to  set 
Pauline  upon  more  tranquil  waters,  lest  she  too  should 
like  himself  be  the  prey  of  wild  imaginations  that  might 
destroy  utterly  one  untempered  by  any  except  the  gentler 
emotions  of  a  secluded  life.  Her  mother  and  sisters, 
whom  he  had  come  to  regard  as  hostile  interpreters  of 
convention,  took  on  again  their  old  features  of  kind- 
liness and  grace;  and  he  was  able  to  see  without 
jealous  torments  how  reasonable  their  attitude  had 
been  throughout;  nay,  more  than  reasonable,  how  un- 
worldly and  noble  -  hearted  it  had  been  in  confiding 
Pauline  to  the  care  of  one  who  had  so  few  pretensions 
to  deserve  her.  He  upbraided  himself  for  having  by 
his  selfishness  involved  Pauline  in  the  complexities  of 
regrets  for  having  done  something  against  her  judg- 
ment; and  in  this  dreary  rain  of  January,  free  from 

263 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

the  burden  of  uncompleted  labor,  he  now  felt  a  more 
light-hearted  assurance  than  he  had  known  since  the 
beginning  of  their  love. 

Bills  came  in  by  every  post,  but  their  ability  to  vex 
him  had  vanished  in  the  promise  his  manuscript  gave 
of  a  speedy  defeat  of  all  material  difficulties.  The 
reaction  from  the  strain  of  decking  his  poems  with 
the  final  touches  that  were  to  precede  the  trial  of 
public  judgment  gave  place  to  dreams.  A  dozen 
times  Guy  followed  the  manuscript  step  by  step  of 
its  journey  from  the  moment  the  insentient  mail-cart 
carried  it  away  from  Wychford  to  the  moment  when 
Mr.  William  Worrall  threw  a  first  casual  glance  to 
where  it  lay  waiting  for  his  perusal  on  the  desk  in 
the  Covent  Garden  office.  Guy  saw  the  office-boy  send 
off  the  formal  post-card  of  acknowledgment  that  he  had 
already  received;  and  in  his  dream  he  rather  pitied  the 
youth  for  his  unconsciousness  of  what  a  treasure  he  was 
acknowledging  merely  in  the  ordinary  routine  of  a  morn- 
ing's work.  Perhaps  the  packet  would  lie  unopened  for 
two  or  three  days — in  fact,  probably  Mr.  Worrall  might 
not  yet  have  resumed  work,  as  they  say,  after  a  short 
Christmas  vacation.  Moreover,  when  he  came  back  to 
business,  although  at  Guy's  request  for  sponsors  the 
poems  had  been  vouched  for  by  one  or  two  reputed 
friends  of  the  publisher  with  whom  he  was  acquainted; 
he  would  no  doubt  still  be  inclined  to  postpone  their 
examination.  Then  one  morning  he  would  almost  in- 
advertently cut  the  string  and  glance  idly  at  a  page, 
and  then.  .  .  . 

At  this  point  the  author's  mental  visions  varied.  Some- 
times Worrall  would  be  so  deeply  transfixed  by  the  rev- 
elation of  a  new  planet  swimming  into  ken  that  he  would 
sit  spellbound  at  his  own  good  fortune,  not  emerging  from 
a  trance  of  delight  until  he  sent  a  telegram  inviting  the 
poet  to  come  post-haste  to  town  and  discuss  terms.  In 
other  dreams  the  publisher  would  distrust  his  own  judg- 

264 


ANOTHER    WINTER 

ment  and  take  the  manuscript  under  his  arm  to  a  critic 
of  taste,  anxiously  watching  his  face  and,  as  an  expression 
of  admiration  gradually  diffused  itself,  knowing  that  his 
own  wild  surmise  had  been  true.  There  were  many  other 
variations  of  the  first  reception  of  the  poems,  but  they 
all  ended  in  the  expenditure  of  sixpence  on  a  telegram. 
Here  the  dream  would  amplify  itself;  and  proofs,  binding, 
paper,  danced  before  Guy's  vision;  while  soon  afterwards 
the  first  reviews  were  coming  in.  At  this  stage  the  poet's 
triumph  assumed  a  hundred  shapes  and  diversities,  and 
ultimately  he  could  never  decide  between  a  leader  on  his 
work  in  The  Times  headed  A  NEW  GENIUS  or  an  eulogy 
on  the  principal  page  of  The  Daily  Mail  that  galloped  neck 
and  neck  for  a  column  alongside  one  of  The  Letters  of 
an  Englishman.  The  former  would  bestow  the  greater 
honor;  the  latter  would  be  more  profitable;  therefore  in 
moments  of  unbridled  optimism  he  was  apt  to  allot  both 
proclamations  to  his  fortune.  With  such  an  inauguration 
of  fame  the  rest  was  easy  dreaming.  His  father  would 
take  a  train  to  Shipcot  on  the  same  morning;  if  he  read 
The  Times  at  breakfast  he  would  catch  the  eleven  o'clock 
from  Galton  and,  traveling  by  way  of  Basingstoke,  reach 
Shipcot  by  half  past  two.  Practically  one  might  dream 
that  before  tea  he  would  have  settled  £300  a  year  on  his 
son,  so  that  the  pleasant  news  could  be  announced  to  the 
Rectory  that  very  afternoon.  In  that  case  he  and  Pauline 
could  be  married  in  April;  and  actually  on  her  twenty- 
first  birthday  she  would  be  his  wife.  They  would  not  go 
to  the  Campagna  this  year,  because  these  bills  must  be 
paid,  unless  his  father,  in  an  access  of  pride  due  to 
his  having  bought  several  more  eulogies  at  bookstalls 
along  the  line,  offered  to  pay  all  debts  up  to  the 
day  of  his  wedding;  in  which  case  they  could  go  to  the 
Campagna: 

I  wonder  do  you  feel  to-day 
As  I  have  felt  since,  hand  in  hand, 

18  26$ 


FLASHERS   MEAD 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 
This  morn  of  Rome  and  May? 

They  would  drive  out  from  the  city  along  the  Appian 
Way  and  turn  aside  to  sit  among  the  ghostliness  of  in- 
numerable grasses  in  those  primal  fields,  the  air  of  which 
would  be  full  of  the  feathery  seeds  and  the  dry  scents  of 
that  onrushing  Summer.  There  would  be  no  thought  of 
time  and  no  need  for  words;  there  would  merely  be  the 
two  of  them  on  a  morn  of  Rome  and  May.  And  later  in 
the  warm  afternoon  they  would  drive  home,  coming  back 
to  the  city's  heart  to  eat  their  dinner  within  sound  of  the 
Roman  fountains.  Then  all  the  night-time  she  would  be 
his,  not  his  in  frightened  gasps  as  when  wintry  England 
was  forbidding  all  joy  to  their  youth,  but  his  endlessly, 
utterly,  gloriously.  They  would  travel  farther  south  and 
perhaps  come  to  that  Parthenopean  shore  calling  to  him 
still  now  from  the  few  days  he  had  spent  upon  its  silver 
heights  and  beside  its  azure  waters.  In  his  dream  Pauline 
was  leaning  on  his  shoulder  beneath  an  Aleppo  pine,  at 
the  cliff's  edge — Pauline,  whose  alien  freshness  would  bring 
a  thought  of  England  to  sigh  through  its  boughs,  and  a 
cooler  world  to  the  aromatic  drought.  Theirs  should  be 
sirenian  moons  and  dawns,  and  life  would  be  this  dream's 
perfect  fulfilment.  In  what  loggia,  firefly-haunted,  would 
he  hold  her?  The  desire  with  which  the  picture  flamed 
upon  his  imagination  was  almost  intolerable,  and  here  he 
always  brought  her  back  to  Plashers  Mead  on  a  June 
dusk.  Then  she  could  be  conjured  in  this  house,  sum- 
moned in  spirit  here  to  this  very  room;  and  if  they  had 
loved  Italy,  how  they  would  love  England  as  they  walked 
across  their  meadows,  husband  and  wife!  With  such 
visions  Guy  set  on  fire  each  January  night  that  floated 
frorely  into  his  bedroom,  until  one  morning  a  letter  arrived 
from  Mr.  William  Worrall  that  made  his  fingers  tremble 
as  he  broke  the  envelope  and  read  the  news: 

266 


ANOTHER   WINTER 

217  COVENT  GARDEN,  W.C., 

January  6th. 

DEAR  SIR, — I  have  looked  at  the  poems  you  were  kind  enough 
to  send  for  my  consideration,  and  I  shall  be  happy  to  hand 
them  to  a  reader  for  his  opinion.  The  reader's  fee  is  one  guinea. 
Should  his  opinion  be  favorable,  I  shall  be  glad  to  discuss  terms 
with  you. 

Yours  faithfully, 

WILLIAM  WORRALL. 

Guy  threw  the  letter  down  in  a  rage.  He  would  almost 
have  preferred  a  flat  refusal  to  this  request  for  money  to 
enable  some  jaded  hack  to  read  his  poems.  The  proposal 
appeared  merely  insolent,  and  he  wrote  curtly  to  Mr. 
William  Worrall  to  demand  the  immediate  return  of  his 
manuscript.  But  after  all,  if  Worrall  did  not  accept  his 
work,  who  would?  Money  was  an  ulterior  consideration 
when  the  great  object  was  to  receive  such  unanimous 
approval  as  would  justify  the  apparent  waste  of  time  in 
which  he  had  been  indulging.  The  moment  his  father 
acknowledged  the  right  he  had  to  be  confident,  he  in  turn 
would  try  to  show  by  following  his  father's  advice  that 
he  was  not  the  wrong-headed  idler  of  his  reputation.  Per- 
haps he  would  send  the  guinea  to  Worrall.  He  tore  up 
his  first  letter  and  wrote  another  in  which  a  cheque  was 
inclosed.  Then  he  began  to  add  up  the  counterfoils  of 
his  cheque-book,  a  depressing  operation  that  displayed  an 
imminent  financial  crisis.  He  had  overdrawn  £5  last 
quarter.  That  left  £32  IQJ-.  of  the  money  paid  in  on 
December  2ist.  The  quarter's  rent  was  £4  los.  That 
left  £28.  Miss  Peasey's  wages  were  in  arrears,  and  he 
must  pay  her  £4  los.  on  the  fifteenth  of  this  month.  That 
would  leave  £23  icxr.,  and  he  must  knock  off  Js.  6d.  for 
Bob's  license.  About  £3  had  gone  at  Christmas  and 
there  were  the  books  still  to  pay.  Twenty  pounds  was  not 
much  for  current  expenses  until  next  Lady  Day.  However, 
he  decided  that  he  could  manage  in  Wychford,  if  he  did 

267 


£ 

s. 

d. 

Books. 

39 

IS 

o 

Furniture. 

i? 

18 

o 

Books. 

22 

16 

6 

Books. 

13 

19 

o 

Books. 

4 

7 

o 

Tobacco. 

9 

19 

0 

Clothes. 

44 

4 

o 

Books,  Clothes, 

Stationery,  Chemist, 

etc.,  etc.         about  £50 

FLASHERS    MEAD 

not  have  to  pay  out  money  for  Oxford  debts,  the  creditors 
of  which  were  pressing  him  harder  each  week. 


Lampard. 

Harker. 

Faucett. 

Williamson. 

Ambrose. 

Brough. 

Clary. 

Miscellaneous. 


A  total  of  £202  i8s.  6d.  Practically  he  might  say  that 
£200  would  clear  everything.  Yet  was  £50  enough  to 
allow  for  those  miscellaneous  accounts?  Here,  for  in- 
stance, was  a  bill  of  £11  for  boots  and  another  of  £14  for 
hats,  apparently,  though  how  the  deuce  he  could  have 
spent  all  that  on  hats  he  did  not  know.  It  would  be 
wiser  to  say  that  £250  was  required  to  free  himself  from 
debt.  Guy  read  through  the  tradesmen's  letters  and  de- 
tected an  universal  impatience,  for  they  all  reminded  him 
that  not  merely  for  fifteen  months  had  they  received 
nothing  on  account  of  large  outstanding  bills,  but  also 
they  made  it  clear  that  behind  reiterated  demands  and 
politeness  strained  to  breaking-point  stood  darkly  the  law. 
That  brute  Ambrose,  to  whom,  after  all,  he  owed  only 
£4  fs.,r  was  the  most  threatening.  In  fact,  he  would  ob- 
viously have  to  pay  the  ruffian  in  full.  That  left  only 
£15  13^.  for  current  expenses  to  Lady  Day,  or  rather 
£14  I2J.,  for,  by  the  way,  Worrall's  guinea  had  been  left 
out  of  the  reckoning. 

Guy  wondered  if  he  ought  to  get  rid  of  Miss  Peasey  and 
manage  for  himself  in  future.  Yet  the  housekeeper 
probably  earned  her  wages  by  what  she  saved  him,  and  if 
he  relied  on  a  woman  who  "came  in"  every  morning,  that 

268 


ANOTHER   WINTER 

meant  feeding  a  family.  It  would  be  better  to  sell  a  few 
books.  He  might  raise  £50  that  way.  Ten  pounds  to 
both  Lampard  and  Clary,  and  six  fivers  among  the  rest, 
would  postpone  any  violent  pressure  for  a  while.  Guy 
at  once  began  to  choose  the  books  with  which  he  could 
most  easily  part.  It  was  difficult  to  put  aside  as  many 
as  might  be  expected  to  raise  £50,  for  his  collection  did 
not  contain  rarities,  and  it  would  be  a  sheer  quantity  of 
volumes,  the  extraction  of  which  would  horribly  deplete 
his  shelves,  upon  which  he  must  rely. 

The  January  rain  dripped  monotonously  on  the  window- 
sills  while  Guy  dragged  book  after  book  from  the  shelves 
that  for  only  fifteen  months  had  known  their  company. 
They  were  a  melancholy  sight  when  he  had  stacked  on 
the  floor  as  many  books  as  he  could  bear  to  lose,  each 
shelf  looking  as  disreputable  as  a  row  of  teeth  after  a 
fight.  A  hundred  volumes  were  gone,  scarcely  a  dozen 
of  which  had  he  sacrificed  without  a  pang.  But  a  hun- 
dred volumes  in  order  to  raise  £50  must  sell  at  an  average 
of  ten  shillings  apiece,  and  in  the  light  of  such  a  test  of 
value  he  regarded  dismayfully  the  victims.  Precious 
though  they  were  to  him,  he  could  not  fairly  estimate 
the  price  they  would  fetch  at  more  than  five  shillings  each. 
That  meant  the  loss  of  at  least  a  hundred  more  books. 
Guy  felt  sick  at  the  prospect  and  looked  miserably  along 
the  rows  for  the  further  tribute  of  martyrs  they  must  be 
forced  to  yield.  With  intense  difficulty  he  gathered  to- 
gether another  fifty,  and  then  with  a  final  effort  came 
again  for  still  another  fifty.  Here  was  the  first  edition 
of  Swinburne's  Essays  and  Studies.  That  must  go,  for 
it  might  count  as  ten  shillings  and  therefore  save  a  weaker 
brother.  Rossetti's  Poems  in  this  edition  of  1871  must  go 
in  order  to  save  the  complete  works,  for  he  could  copy 
out  the  sonnet  which  was  not  reprinted  in  the  later  edi- 
tion. Here  was  Payne's  translation  of  Villon,  which 
could  certainly  go,  for  it  would  fetch  at  least  fifteen  shil- 
lings, and  he  still  possessed  that  tattered  little  French  edi- 

269 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

tion  at  two  francs.  The  collected  Verlaine  might  as  well 
go,  and  the  Mallarme  with  the  Rops  frontispiece:  the  six 
volumes  would  save  others  better  loved.  Besides,  he  was 
sick  of  French  poetry,  wretched  stuff  most  of  it.  Yet, 
here  was  Heredia  and  the  Pleiad  and  de  Vigny,  all  of 
whom  were  beloved  exceptions.  He  must  preserve,  too, 
the  Italians  (what  a  solace  Leopardi  had  been),  though 
here  were  a  couple  of  Infernos,  one  of  which  could  surely 
be  sacrificed.  He  opened  the  first: 

Amor,  chee  a  nullo  amato  amar  perdona, 

Mi  pres  del  costui  piacer  si  forte, 
Che,  come  vedi,  ancor  -non  m'abbandona. 

The  words  were  stained  with  the  blue  anemone  to  which 
he  had  likened  Pauline's  eyes  that  first  day  of  their  love's 
declaration.  He  opened  the  other: 

Ma  solo  un  punto  fu  quel  che  ci  vinsey 

Quando  leggemmo  il  disiato  riso 
Esser  baciato  da  cotanto  amante, 

Questi,  che  mai  da  me  non  fia  diviso, 
La  bocca  mi  bacib  tutto  tremante: 

And  in  this  volume  the  words  were  stained  with  a 
ragged-robin  which  unnoticed  had  come  back  to  Plashers 
Mead  in  his  pocket  that  May  eve,  and  which  when  it 
fell  out  later  he  had  pressed  between  those  burning  pages. 
It  was  doubtless  the  worst  kind  of  sentiment,  but  the  two 
books  must  go  back  upon  their  shelves,  and  never  must 
they  be  lost,  even  if  everything  but  Shakespeare  went. 

Guy  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  found  that  it  was 
actually  wet  with  the  agony  of  what  on  this  January 
afternoon  he  had  been  compelling  himself  to  achieve. 
Each  book  before  it  was  condemned  he  stroked  fondly  and 
smelled  like  incense  the  fragrant  mustiness  of  the  pages, 
since  nearly  every  volume  still  commemorated  either  the 
pleasure  of  the  moment  when  he  had  bought  it  or  some 
occasion  of  reading  equally  good  to  recall.  Then  he  cov- 

270 


ANOTHER   WINTER 

ered  the  pile  with  a  shroud  of  tattered  stuff  and  wrote  a 
letter  offering  them  to  the  only  bookseller  in  Oxford  with 
whom  he  had  never  dealt.  Two  days  later  an  assistant 
came  over  to  inspect  the  booty. 

"Well?"  said  Guy,  painfully,  when  the  assistant  put 
away  his  note-book  and  shot  his  cuffs  forward. 

"Well,  Mr.  Hazlewood,  we  can  offer  you  thirty-five 
pounds  for  that  little  lot." 

Guy  stammered  a  repetition  of  the  disappointing  sum. 

"That's  right,  sir.     And  we  don't  really  want  them." 

"But  surely  fifty  pounds  .  .  ." 

The  assistant  smiled  in  a  superior  way. 

"We  must  try  and  make  a  little  profit,"  he  murmured. 

"Oh,  God,  you'll  do  that!  Why,  I  must  have  paid  very 
nearly  a  hundred  for  them,  and  they  were  practically  all 
second  hand  when  I  bought  them." 

The  assistant  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,  but  in  offering  you  thirty-five  pounds 
I'm  offering  too  much  as  it  is.  We  don't  really  want 
them,  you  see.  They're  not  really  any  good  to  us." 

"You're  simply  being  damned  charitable  in  fact,"  said 
Guy.  "All  right.  Give  me  a  cheque  and  take  them  away 
when  you  like  .  .  .  the  sooner  the  better." 

He  could  have  kicked  that  pile  of  books  he  had  with 
such  hardship  chosen;  already  they  seemed  to  belong  to 
this  smart  young  assistant  with  the  satin  tie;  and  he 
began  to  hate  this  agglomeration  which  had  cost  him 
such  agony,  and  in  the  end  had  swindled  him  out  of  £15. 
The  assistant  sat  down  and  wrote  a  cheque  for  Guy,  took 
his  receipt,  and  bowed  himself  out,  saying  that  he  would 
send  for  the  books  in  the  course  of  the  week. 

Through  the  rain  Guy  went  for  consolation  to  Pauline. 
He  told  her  of  his  sacrifice,  and  she  with  all  she  could  give 
of  exquisite  compassion  listened  to  his  tale. 

"But,  Guy,  my  darling,  why  don't  you  borrow  the 
money  from  Father?  I  am  sure  he'd  be  delighted  to  lend 
it  to  you," 

271 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Guy  shook  his  head. 

"It's  impossible.  My  debts  must  be  paid  by  myself. 
I  wouldn't  even  borrow  from  Michael  Fane.  Dearest, 
don't  look  so  sad.  I  would  sell  my  soul  for  you.  Kiss 
me.  Kiss  me.  I  care  for  nothing  but  your  kisses.  You 
must  promise  not  to  say  a  word  of  this  to  any  one.  Be- 
sides, it's  no  sacrifice  to  do  anything  that  brings  our 
marriage  nearer  by  an  inch.  These  debts  are  weighting  me 
down.  They  stifle  me.  I  am  miserable,  too,  about  the 
poems.  I  haven't  told  you  yet.  It's  really  a  joke  in  one 
way.  Yes,  it's  really  funny.  Worrall  wrote  to  ask  for 
a  guinea  before  he  read  them.  Now,  don't  you  think 
there  is  something  very  particularly  humorous  in  being 
charged  a  guinea  by  a  reader?  However,  don't  worry 
about  that." 

"How  could  he  be  so  stupid?"  she  cried.  "I  hope  you 
took  them  away  from  him." 

"Oh  no.  I  sent  the  guinea.  They  must  be  published. 
Pauline,  I  must  have  done  something  soon  or  I  shall  go 
mad!  Surely  you  see  the  funny  side  of  his  offer?  I 
think  the  notion  of  my  expecting  to  get  five  shillings 
apiece  out  of  a  lot  of  readers,  and  my  only  reader's  getting 
a  guinea  out  of  me  is  funny.  I  think  it's  quite  humor- 
ous." 

"Nothing  is  funny  to  me  that  hurts  you,"  Pauline 
murmured.  "And  I'm  heartbroken  about  the  books." 

"Oh,  when  I'm  rich  I  can  buy  plenty." 

"But  not  the  same  books." 

"That's  mere  sentiment,"  he  laughed.  "And  the  only 
sentiment  I  allow  myself  is  in  connection  with  things  that 
you  have  sanctified." 

Then  he  told  her  about  the  flowers  pressed  in  the  two 
volumes  of  Dante,  both  in  that  same  fifth  canto. 

"And  almost,  you  know,"  Guy  whispered,  "I  value  most 
the  ragged-robin,  because  it  commemorates  the  day  you 
really  began  to  love  me." 

"Ah  no,"  she  protested.  "Guy,  don't  say  that.  I 

272 


ANOTHER    WINTER 

always  loved  you,  but  I  was  shy  before.  I  could  not  tell 
you.  Sometimes  I  wish  I  were  shy  now.  It  would  make 
our  love  so  much  less  of  a  strain." 

"Is  it  a  strain?" 

"Oh,  sometimes!"  she  cried,  nearly  in  tears,  her  light- 
brown  hair  upon  his  shoulder.  "Oh  yes,  yes,  Guy!  I 
can't  bear  to  feel  .  .  .  I'm  frightened  sometimes,  and  when 
Mother  has  been  cross  with  me,  I've  not  known  what 
to  do.  Guy,  you  won't  ever  ask  me  to  come  out  again 
at  night?" 

"Not  if  it  worries  you  afterwards." 

"Oh  yes,  it  has,  it  has!  Guy,  when  shall  we  be  mar- 
ried?" 

"This  year.  It  shall  be  this  year,"  he  vowed.  "Let 
us  believe  that,  Pauline.  You  do  believe  that?" 

"Oh,  Guy,  I  adore  you  so  wildly.  It  must  be  this 
year.  My  darling,  my  darling,  this  year  ...  let  it  be  this 
year." 

Guy  doled  out  very  carefully  the  £35  he  had  accumu- 
lated by  the  sale  of  his  books.  Lampard  and  Clary  had 
to  be  content  with  £7  apiece.  Five  more  creditors  re- 
ceived £4,  or  rather  one  of  them  only  £3  19^.,  so  that 
the  guinea  left  over  could  be  put  back  into  the  current 
account  for  poetic  justice.  There  was  for  the  present 
nothing  more  to  do  but  await  the  verdict  of  Worrall's 
reader,  and  in  a  fortnight  Guy  heard  from  the  publisher 
to  say  this  had  been  favorable  enough  to  make  Mr.  Wor- 
rall  wish  to  see  him  in  order  to  discuss  the  matter  of 
publication.  Guy  was  much  excited  and  rushed  across  to 
the  Rectory  in  a  festivity  of  hopefulness.  He  had  wired 
to  say  he  would  be  in  London  next  day,  and  all  that  eve- 
ning the  name  of  Worrall  was  lauded  until  round  his  un- 
known personality  shone  the  aureole  of  a  wise  and  benev- 
olent saint.  There  seemed  no  limit  to  what  so  discerning 
a  publisher  might  not  do  for  Guy,  and  he  and  Pauline 
became  to  themselves  and  to  her  family  the  hero  and 
heroine  of  such  an  adventure  as  never  had  been.  In  the 

273 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

course  of  the  evening  Guy  had  an  opportunity  of  talking 
to  Margaret,  and  for  the  first  time  for  a  long  while  he 
availed  himself  of  it. 

"Are  you  really  going  to  talk  to  me,  then?"  she  asked  in 
mock  surprise. 

"Margaret,  I've  been  rather  objectionable  lately,"  said 
Guy,  remembering  with  an  access  of  penitence  that  it 
must  be  almost  exactly  a  year  ago  that  he  and  Margaret 
in  that  snowy  weather  had  first  talked  about  his  love  for 
Pauline. 

"Well,  I  have  thought  that  you  were  forgetting  me," 
said  Margaret.  "I  shall  be  sad  if  we  are  never  going  to 
be  friends  again." 

"Oh,  Margaret,  we  are  friends  now.  I've  been  worried, 
and  I  thought  that  you  had  been  rather  unkind  to  Pau- 
line." 

"I  haven't  really." 

"Of  course  not.  It  was  absolutely  my  fault,"  Guy 
admitted.  "Now  that  there  seems  a  chance  of  our  being 
married  in  less  than  ten  years,  I'm  going  to  give  up  this 
continual  exasperation  in  which  I  live  nowadays.  It's 
curious  that  my  first  impression  of  you  all  should  have 
been  as  of  a  Mozart  symphony,  so  tranquil  and  gay  and 
self-contained  and  perfectly  made  did  the  Rectory  seem. 
How  clumsily  I  have  plunged  into  that  life,"  he  sighed. 
"Really,  Margaret,  I  feel  sometimes  like  a  wild  beast  that's 
escaped  from  a  menagerie  and  got  into  a  concert  of  cham- 
ber-music. Look  here,  you  shall  never  have  to  grumble 
at  me  again.  Now  tell  me,  just  to  show  that  you've  for- 
given my  detestable  irruption  .  .  .  when  Richard  comes 
back  .  .  ." 

Margaret  gave  him  her  hand  for  a  moment,  and  looked 
down. 

"And  you're  happy?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"I'm  sure  I  shall  be." 

"Oh,  you  will  be,  you  will  be." 

Pauline  asked  him  afterwards  what  he  had  said  to  Mar- 

274 


garet  that  could  have  made  her  so  particularly  sweet,  and 
when  Guy  whispered  his  discovery,  Pauline  declared  that 
the  one  thing  necessary  to  make  this  evening  perfect  had 
been  just  that  knowledge. 

"Guy,  how  clever  of  you  to  make  her  tell  you  what 
she  will  never  tell  us.  You  don't  know  how  much  it  has 
worried  me  to  feel  that  you  were  always  angry  with  Mar- 
garet. How  I've  exaggerated  everything!  And  what 
friends  you  really  are,  you  dears!" 

"I've  never  been  angry  with  her  except  on  your  ac- 
count." 

"But  you  won't  ever  be  again,  because  I'm  so  foolish. 
I'm  really  a  sort  of  young  Miss  Verney." 

They  laughed  at  this  idea  of  Pauline's,  and  soon  it  was 
time  for  Guy  to  go.  He  thought  luxuriously  as  he  walked 
up  the  drive  how  large  a  measure  of  good  news  he  would 
bring  back  with  him  from  London. 

Guy  was  surprised  to  be  kept  waiting  when  he  inquired 
for  Mr.  Worrall  at  three  o'clock  on  the  following  after- 
noon. All  the  way  up  in  the  train  he  had  thought  so 
much  about  him  and  so  kindlily,  that  it  seemed  he  must 
the  very  moment  he  entered  the  dusty  Georgian  ante- 
chamber shake  his  publisher  warmly  by  the  hand.  He 
had  pictured  him  really  as  looking  out  for  his  coming, 
almost  as  vividly  indeed  in  his  prefiguration  of  the  scene 
as  to  behold  Mr.  Worrall's  face  pressed  tight  against  a 
pane  and  thence  disappearing  to  greet  him  from  the  step. 

It  was  a  shock  to  be  invited  to  wait,  and  he  repeated 
his  name  to  the  indifferent  clerk  a  little  insistently. 

"Mr.  Worrall  will  see  you  in  a  minute,"  the  clerk 
repeated. 

Guy  looked  at  the  few  objects  of  interest  in  the  outer 
office,  at  the  original  drawings  of  wrappers  and  frontis- 
pieces, at  the  signed  photograph  of  a  moderately  distin- 
guished poet  of  the  'nineties,  at  a  depressing  accumulation 
of  still  unsold  volumes.  The  window  was  grimy,  and  the 
raindrops  seemed  from  inside  to  smear  it  as  tears  smudge 

275 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

the  face  of  a  dirty  child.  The  clerk  pored  over  a  ledger, 
and  from  the  gray  afternoon  the  cries  of  the  porters  in 
Covent  Garden  came  drearily  in.  At  last  a  bell  sounded, 
and  the  clerk  invited  him  "to  step  this  way,"  lifting  the 
counter  and  pointing  up  a  narrow  staircase  beyond  a  glass 
door.  Guy  went  up,  and  at  last  entered  Mr.  Worrall's 
private  office. 

The  publisher  was  a  short,  fat  man  with  a  bald  and 
curiously  conical  head,  reminding  Guy  very  much  of  a 
dentist  in  his  manner.  The  poet  sat  down  and  immedi- 
ately caught  in  his  first  survey  Mr.  William  Worrall's 
caricature  by  Max  Beerbohm.  As  a  result  of  this  obser- 
vation Guy  throughout  the  interview  could  only  perceive 
Mr.  Worrall  as  the  caricaturist  had  perceived  him,  and 
like  a  shape  in  a  dream  his  head  all  the  time  grew  more 
and  more  conical,  until  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  soon  bore 
a  hole  in  the  festooned  ceiling. 

"Well,  Mr.  Hazlewood,"  said  the  publisher,  referring 
as  he  spoke  to  Guy's  card  with  what  Guy  thought  was  a 
rather  unnecessary  implication  of  oblivion — "well,  Mr. 
Hazlewood,  my  reader  reports  very  favorably  on  your 
poems,  and  there  seems  no  reason  why  I  should  not 
publish  them." 

Guy  bowed. 

"No  reason  at  all,"  Mr.  Worrall  continued.  Then 
making  a  Gothic  arch  with  his  fingers  and  looking  up  at 
the  ceiling,  he  added: 

"Though,  of  course,  there  will  be  a  risk.  However, 
my  reader's  opinion  was  certainly  favorable." 

And  so  it  ought  to  be,  thought  Guy,  for  a  guinea. 

"And  I  don't  think,"  Mr.  Worrall  went  on,  "that  in 
the  circumstances  we  need  be  very  much  afraid.  Have 
you  any  ideas  about  the  price  at  which  your  sheaf,  your 
little  harvest  is  to  be  offered  to  the  public?" 

"Oh,  I  should  leave  that  to  you,"  said  Guy,  hastily. 

"Precisely,"  said  the  publisher.  "Yes,  I  think  per- 
haps we  might  say  five  shillings  or  ...  of  course  it  might 

276 


ANOTHER    WINTER 

be  done  in  paper  in  the  Covent  Garden  Series  of  Modern 
English  Poets.  Yes,  the  reader  speaks  most  highly  of 
your  work.  You  know  the  Covent  Garden  Series  of 
Modern  Poets?  In  paper  at  half-a-crown  net?" 

"I  should  be  very  proud  to  appear  in  such  a  series/* 
said  Guy,  pleasantly.  The  series,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was 
one  that  could  do  him  no  discredit. 

"It's  a  charming  idea,  isn't  it?"  said  Mr.  Worrall, 
fondling  one  of  the  set  that  lay  on  his  desk.  "Every  five 
volumes  has  its  own  floral  emblem.  We've  done  The 
Rose,  The  Lily,  The  Violet.  Let  me  see,  your  poems  are 
mostly  about  London,  aren't  they?" 

"No,  there  isn't  one  about  London,"  Guy  pointed  out, 
rather  sharply. 

"No,  precisely;  then  of  course  they  would  not  come  in 
The  London  Pride  set  which  still  has  a  vacancy.  Perhaps 
The  Cowslip?  What  does  the  reader  say?  Um,  yes, 
pastoral!  Precisely!  Well,  then  why  not  let  us  decide 
that  your  poems  shall  be  Number  Three  in  The  Cowslip 
set.  Capital!  I  think  you'd  be  wise  to  choose  the 
Covent  Garden  series  in  paper.  The  cost  of  publication 
is  really  less  in  that  series,  and  I  have  always  chosen  my 
poets  so  carefully  that  I  can  be  sure  the  Press  will  pay 
attention  to — er  neophytes.  That  is  a  great  advantage 
for  a  young  writer,  as  you  no  doubt  realize  without  my 
telling  you?" 

"The  cost?"  echoed  Guy  in  a  puzzled  voice. 

"It  will  run  you  in  for  about  thirty  pounds — as  a 
guarantee  of  course.  The  terms  I  suggest  are  simply 
a  written  agreement  that  you  will  guarantee  thirty  pounds 
towards  the  cost.  Your  royalty  to  be  ten  per  cent,  on 
the  first  thousand,  twelve  and  a  half  on  the  next  thou- 
sand, and  fifteen  over  two  thousand.  We  might  fairly 
say  that  in  the  event  of  selling  a  thousand  you  would 
have  nothing  to  pay,  but,  of  course,  if  you  only  sell 
twenty  or  thirty,  you  will  have  to — er — pay  for  your 
piping." 

277 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"And  when  should  I  have  to  produce  this  thirty 
pounds?"  Guy  asked. 

"Well,  I  might  ask  for  a  cheque  to  be  placed  to  my 
account  on  the  day  of  publication;  and  then,  of  course,  I 
should  send  in  a  written  statement  twice  a  year  with  the 
usual  three  months'  margin  for  settlement/' 

"So  that  supposing  my  book  came  out  in  March?"  Guy 
inquired. 

"By  the  following  November  I  should  hope  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  sending  you  back  your  thirty  pounds  and 
a  cheque  on  account  of  royalties,"  said  the  publisher, 
briskly. 

"They  don't  seem  very  good  terms,  somehow,"  said 
Guy. 

Mr.  Worrall  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  his  conical 
head  grew  more  conical. 

"You  forget  the  advantage  of  being  in  the  Covent 
Garden  Series  of  Modern  Poets.  However,  don't,  pray  do 
not,  intrust  your  manuscript  to  my  pilotage  unless  you 
are  perfectly  satisfied.  I  have  a  good  many  poems  to 
consider,  you  know." 

"May  I  write  within  a  week  or  so  and  give  you  my 
decision?"  Guy  asked. 

"Naturally." 

"Well,  good-by." 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Hazlewood.     Clever  fellow,  isn't  he?" 

Guy  had  given  a  farewell  glance  at  Max  Beerbohm's 
caricature. 

"Very  clever,"  the  poet  fervently  agreed. 

Guy  left  Mr.  William  Worrall's  office  and  wandered 
dismally  across  Covent  Garden,  wondering  where  on  earth 
he  was  going  to  be  able  to  raise  £30.  He  had  intended 
to  spend  the  night  in  town  and  look  up  some  old  friends, 
but,  foreseeing  now  the  inevitable  question,  "What  are 
you  doing?"  he  felt  he  had  not  the  heart  to  explain  that 
at  present  he  was  debating  the  possibility  of  spending 
£30  in  order  to  produce  a  book  of  poems.  All  the  people 

278 


ANOTHER    WINTER 

whom  he  would  have  been  glad  to  see  had  held  such  high 
hopes  of  him  at  Oxford,  had  prophesied  for  his  career  such 
prosperity;  and  now  when  after  fifteen  months  he  emerged 
from  his  retirement  it  was  but  to  pay  a  man  to  include  him 
in  the  Covent  Garden  Series  of  Modern  Poets.  The  rain 
came  down  faster,  and  a  creeping  fog  made  more  inhos- 
pitable the  dusk  of  London.  He  thought  of  a  quick  train 
somewhere  about  five  o'clock,  and  in  a  sudden  longing  to 
be  back  in  the  country  and  to  sleep,  however  dark  and 
frore  the  January  night  that  stretched  between  them, 
nearer  to  Pauline  than  here  in  this  city  of  drizzled  fog, 
he  took  a  cab  to  Paddington. 

During  the  railway  journey  Guy  contemplated  various 
plans  to  raise  the  money  he  wanted.  He  knew  that  his 
father  at  the  cost  of  a  long  letter  would  probably  have 
given  him  the  sum;  but  supposing  a  triumph  lay  before 
him,  all  the  sweets  of  it  would  have  been  robbed  by 
paternal  help.  Moreover,  if  the  book  were  paid  for  thus, 
there  would  be  a  consequent  suspicion  of  all  favorable 
criticism;  it  would  never  seem  a  genuine  book  to  his 
father,  and  the  reviews  would  give  him  the  impression  of 
being  the  work  of  well-disposed  amateurs  or  of  personal 
friends.  There  was  the  alternative  of  borrowing  the 
money  from  Michael  Fane;  and  then  as  the  train  went 
clanging  through  the  night  Guy  made  up  his  mind  to 
be  under  an  obligation  to  nobody  and  to  sacrifice  all  the 
rest  of  his  books  if  necessary  that  this  new  book  might 
be  born. 

When  he  was  back  at  Flashers  Mead  his  resolution  did 
not  weaken;  coldly  and  unsentimentally  he  began  to 
eviscerate  the  already  mutilated  library.  At  the  end  of 
his  task  he  had  stacked  upon  the  floor  five  hundred  vol- 
umes to  be  offered  as  a  bargain  to  the  bookseller  who  had 
bought  the  others.  All  that  was  left,  indeed,  were  the 
cheapest  and  most  ordinary  editions  of  poets,  one  or  two 
volumes  of  the  greatest  of  all  like  Rabelais  and  Cervantes, 
and  the  eternally  read  and  most  companionable  like  Bos- 

279 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

well  and  Gilbert  White  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne.  In  the 
determination  that  had  seized  him  he  rejoiced  in  his  bare 
shelves,  so  much  exalted  by  the  glories  of  abnegation 
that  he  began  to  despise  himself  in  his  former  attitude  as 
a  trifler  among  books  and  to  say  to  himself,  as  he  looked 
at  the  volumes  which  had  survived  this  heartless  clear- 
ance, that  now  he  was  set  on  the  great  fairway  of  liter- 
ature without  any  temptation  to  diverge  up  the  narrow 
streams  of  personal  taste.  The  bookseller's  assistant  was 
not  at  all  eager  for  the  proffered  bargain,  and  in  the  end 
Guy  could  only  manage  to  obtain  the  £30  and  not,  as  he 
had  hoped,  another  £10  towards  his  debts.  Nevertheless, 
he  locked  the  cheque  up  in  his  desk  with  the  satisfaction  of 
a  man  who  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  earns  money,  and 
later  on  went  across  to  tell  Pauline  the  result  of  the  visit 
to  London. 

There  was  a  smell  of  frost  in  the  air  that  afternoon,  and 
the  sharpness  of  the  weather  consorted  well  with  Guy's 
mood,  taking  away  the  heavy  sense  of  disappointment 
and  giving  him  a  sparkling  hopefulness.  He  and  Pauline 
went  for  a  walk  on  Wychford  down,  and  in  the  wintry 
cheer  he  would  not  allow  her  to  be  cast  down  at  the 
loss  of  his  books  or  to  resent  Worrall's  reception  of  the 
poems. 

"Everything  is  all  right,"  he  assured  her.  "The  more 
we  have  to  deny  ourselves  now,  the  greater  will  be  my 
success  when  it  comes.  The  law  of  compensation  never 
fails.  You  and  I  are  Davidsbiindler  marching  against  the 
Philistines.  So  be  brave,  my  Pauline." 

"I  will  try  to  be  brave,"  she  promised.  "But  it's  hard- 
er for  me  because  I'm  doing  nothing." 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Guy.  "Nothing  except  endow 
me  with  passion  and  ambition,  with  consolation  .  .  .  oh, 
nothing,  you  foolish  one." 

"Am  I  really  all  that  to  you?" 

"Forward,"  he  shouted,  hurling  his  stick  in  front  of 
him  and  dragging  Pauline  at  the  heels  of  Bob  across  turf 

280 


ANOTHER    WINTER 

that  was  already  beginning  to  crackle  in  the  frost.  Pau- 
line could  not  resist  his  confidence,  and  when  at  last  they 
had  to  turn  round  and  leave  a  smoky  orange  sunset,  they 
came  home  glowing  to  the  Rectory,  both  in  the  highest 
spirits.  Guy  wrote  to  the  publisher  that  night  and  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  accepting  the  "offer,"  a  word 
which  he  could  not  resist  framing  with  inverted  commas 
in  case  the  sarcastic  shaft  might  pierce  Mr.  Worrall's 
hard  and  conical  head. 

Sitting  back  in  his  chair  and  thinking  over  his  poems, 
all  sorts  of  verbal  improvements  suggested  themselves  to 
Guy;  and  he  added  a  note  asking  for  the  manuscript  to 
be  sent  back  for  a  few  corrections.  He  looked  at  his  work 
with  new  eyes  when  it  arrived,  and  bent  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  that  fruition  gave  his  pen  upon  reviewing  each 
line  for  the  hundredth  time.  He  had  enjoyed  few  things 
so  well  in  his  life  as  going  to  bed  tired  with  the  intense 
consideration  of  a  rhyme  and  falling  asleep  in  the  am- 
bition to  reconsider  it  early  next  morning. 

About  ten  days  had  passed  since  Guy  sold  the  second 
lot  of  books,  and  the  poems  were  now  as  good  as  he  could 
make  them  until  print  should  reveal  numbers  of  fresh 
faults.  He  hoped  that  Worrall  would  hurry  on  with  the 
printing  in  order  to  allow  him  plenty  of  time  for  an  even 
more  severe  scrutiny;  and  he  wrote  to  suggest  April  as 
the  month  of  publication,  so  anxious  was  he  to  have  one 
specially  bound  copy  to  offer  Pauline  on  her  birthday. 

On  the  very  morning  when  the  manuscript  had  been 
wrapped  up  and  was  ready  to  be  sent  off  a  disturbing 
letter  arrived  from  Lampard,  his  favorite  Oxford  book- 
seller, to  say  that,  having  made  a  purchase  of  books  two 
or  three  days  ago,  he  had  been  surprised  to  find  among 
them  a  large  number  of  volumes  with  Mr.  Hazlewood's 
name  inscribed  on  the  fly-leaves,  for  which  Mr.  Hazlewood 
had  not  yet  paid  him.  He  ventured  to  think  it  was  only  by 
an  oversight  that  Mr.  Hazlewood  had  not  paid  his  long 
outstanding  account  before  disposing  of  the  books,  and 
19  281 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

in  short  he  was  anxious  to  know  what  Mr.  Hazlewood 
intended  to  do  about  it.  His  bill,  £32  i$s.,  was  inclosed. 
Guy  wrote  back  to  say  that  it  was  indeed  a  most  unac- 
countable oversight  on  his  part,  but  that  he  hoped,  in 
order  to  mark  his  sympathy  with  Mr.  Lampard's  point 
of  view,  to  send  him  another  cheque  very  shortly,  remind- 
ing the  bookseller  at  the  same  time  that  he  had  scarcely 
three  weeks  ago  sent  him  £7  on  account.  Mr.  Lampard, 
in  his  reply,  observed  very  plainly  that  Guy's  letter  was 
no  reply  at  all  and  threatened  politely  to  make  matters 
rather  unpleasant  if  the  bill  were  not  paid  in  full  in- 
stantly. Guy  tried  once  more  a  letter  full  of  bland  prom- 
ises, and  received  in  response  a  letter  from  Mr.  Lampard's 
solicitor.  The  £30  intended  for  Mr.  Worrall  had  to  be 
sacrificed,  and  even  £2  15^.  had  to  be  taken  from  his 
current  account.  Savagely  he  tore  the  paper  from  the 
manuscript,  wrapped  it  up  again,  and  despatched  it  to 
another  publisher.  The  bad  luck  of  the  Lampard  busi- 
ness made  him  only  the  more  resolute  not  to  invoke  aid 
from  his  father  or  any  one  else.  He  was  a  prey  to  a  per- 
verse determination  to  do  everything  himself;  but  it  was 
gloomy  news  that  he  had  to  tell  Pauline  that  afternoon, 
and  she  broke  down  and  cried  in  her  disappointment. 


P 


FEBRUARY 

AULINE  had  been  looking  forward  to  the  entrance 
of  February  with  joyful  remembrance  of  what  last 
February  had  brought  her;  and  that  the  anniversary  of 
Guy's  declaration  of  his  love  should  be  heralded  by  such 
a  discomfiture  of  their  plans  was  a  shock.  The  renewal 
of  his  uncertainty  about  the  fate  of  the  poems  destroyed 
the  progress  of  a  love  that  seemed  to  have  come  back  to 
its  old  calm  course,  and  brought  back  with  all  the  added 
sharpness  of  absence  the  heartache  and  the  apprehension. 
Pauline  sat  in  the  nursery  window-seat  and  pondered 
dolefully  the  obstacles  to  happiness  from  which  her  mind, 
however  hard  it  tried,  could  not  escape.  Most  insistently 
of  these  obstacles  Guy's  debts  haunted  her,  harassing  and 
material  responsibilities  that  in  great  uncouth  battalions 
swept  endlessly  past.  Even  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
she  would  wake  gasping  in  an  effort  to  escape  from  being 
stifled  by  their  vastness  pressing  down  upon  her  brain. 
The  small  presents  Guy  had  given  her  burned  through  the 
darkness  to  reproach  her:  even  the  two  rings  goaded  her 
for  the  extravagance  they  represented.  It  was  useless  for 
Guy  to  explain  that  his  debts  were  a  trifle,  because  the 
statement  of  a  sum  so  large  as  £200  appalled  her  as  much 
as  if  he  had  said  £2,00x3.  She  longed  for  a  confidante 
whose  sympathy  she  could  exact  for  the  incubus  that  pos- 
sessed her  lover;  and  fancying  a  disloyalty  to  him  if  she 
discussed  his  money  affairs  with  her  family,  she  could 
think  of  no  one  but  Miss  Verney  to  whom  the  burden- 
some secret  might  be  intrusted. 

283 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"William  had  the  same  difficulty,"  sighed  the  old  maid. 
"Really  it  seems  as  if  money  is  the  root  of  all  evil.  Two 
hundred  pounds,  you  say?  Oh,  dear,  how  uncomfortable 
he  must  feel,  poor  young  man!" 

"If  only  I  could  make  some  money,  dear  Miss  Verney. 
But  how  could  I  ?" 

"I  used  to  ask  myself  that  very  question,"  said  the  old 
maid.  "I  used  to  ask  myself  just  that  very  identical 
question.  But  there  was  never  any  satisfactory  answer." 

"It  seems  so  dreadful  that  he  should  have  sold  nearly 
all  his  books  and  still  have  debts,"  moaned  Pauline.  "It 
seems  so  cruel.  Ought  I  to  give  him  up?" 

"Give  him  up?"  repeated  Miss  Verney,  her  cheeks 
becoming  dead  white  at  the  question.  "Oh,  my  dear,  I 
don't  think  it  could  be  right  for  you  to  give  him  up  on 
account  of  debts.  Patience  seems  to  me  the  only  remedy 
for  your  troubles,  patience  and  constancy." 

"No,  you've  misunderstood  me,"  cried  Pauline.  "I'm 
afraid  that  I  hamper  him,  that  I  spoil  his  work.  If  I  gave 
him  up  he  would  go  away  from  Wychford  and  be  free. 
Besides,  perhaps  then  his  father  would  pay  his  debts. 
Miss  Verney,  Mr.  Hazlewood  didn't  like  me,  and  I  think 
Guy  has  quarreled  with  him  over  me.  Oh,  I'm  the  most 
miserable  girl  in  England,  and  such  a  little  time  ago  I  was 
the  happiest." 

"Money,"  said  Miss  Verney,  slowly  and  seeming  to 
address  her  cats  rather  than  Pauline.  "The  root  of  all 
evil!  Yes,  yes,  it  is.  It's  the  root  of  all  evil." 

Pauline  was  a  little  heartened  by  Miss  Verney's  readi- 
ness to  consider  so  seriously  the  monster  that  oppressed 
her  thoughts;  yet  it  was  disquieting  to  regard  the  old 
maid,  whose  life  had  been  ruined  by  money,  and  who  all 
alone  with  cats  stayed  here  in  this  small  house  at  the  top 
of  Wychford  town,  the  very  image  of  unhappy  love.  It 
was  disquieting  to  hear  her  reflections  on  the  calamity  of 
gold  uttered  like  this  to  cats,  and  in  a  sudden  dread  of 
the  future  Pauline  beheld  herself  talking  in  the  same  way 

284 


ANOTHER   WINTER 

a  long  time  hence.  She  shivered  and  bade  Miss  Verney 
farewell;  and  now  to  all  the  other  woes  that  stood  behind 
her  in  the  shadows  was  added  the  vision  of  herself  mum- 
bling to  cats  in  February  dusks  of  the  dim  years  ahead. 

The  idea  of  herself  as  the  figure  of  an  unhappy  tale  of 
love  grew  continuously  more  definite,  and  once  she  spoke 
of  her  dread  to  Guy,  who  was  very  angry. 

"How  can  you  encourage  such  morbid  notions?"  he 
protested.  "You  really  must  cultivate  the  power  to  resist 
them.  People  go  mad  by  indulging  their  depression  as 
you're  doing." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  go  mad,"  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake  don't  talk  like  that!"  he  ejaculated 
in  angry  alarm;  and  Pauline,  realizing  how  she  had 
frightened  him,  was  sorry  and  went  to  the  other  extreme 
of  high  spirits. 

"I  thought  we  had  agreed  to  wait  ten  years  or  twenty 
years,  if  necessary,"  said  Guy.  "And  now  after  one  year 
you  are  finding  the  strain  too  much.  Why  won't  you  have 
confidence  in  me?  It's  unfortunate  about  Worrall,  I 
admit.  But  there  are  plenty  of  other  publishers." 

He  mentioned  names  one  after  another,  but  to  Pauline 
they  were  the  names  of  stone  idols  that  stared  unrespon- 
sively  at  her  lover's  poems. 

"If  we  had  only  done  what  Mother  wanted  and  not 
seen  so  much  of  each  other,"  she  lamented. 

Guy's  disposal  of  her  vain  fears  was  without  effect,  for 
his  eloquence  could  not  contend  with  these  deepening 
regrets;  and  as  fast  as  he  threw  down  the  material  ob- 
stacles to  their  happiness  Pauline  saw  them  maddeningly 
rise  again  in  the  path  before  them,  visible  shapes  of  ill 
omen,  grotesquely  irrepressible.  Guy  used  to  asseverate 
that  when  Spring  was  really  come  she  would  lose  all  these 
morbid  fancies,  and  with  his  perpetual  ascription  to  wintry 
gloom  of  all  the  presentiments  of  woe  that  flocked  round 
their  intercourse,  Pauline  did  begin  to  fancy  that  when 
the  trees  were  green  he  and  she  would  rejoice  as  of  old 

285 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

in  their  love.  The  knowledge  that  Spring  could  not  lin- 
ger always  was  the  only  consoling  certainty  she  now  pos- 
sessed, and  from  the  window-seat  she  greeted  with  a 
passionate  welcome  each  dusky  azure  minute  that  on  these 
lengthening  eves  was  robbed  from  night.  The  black- 
birds sang  to  her  now  more  personally,  these  somber- 
suited  heralds  who  had  never  before  seemed  to  proclaim 
so  audaciously  masterful  Spring;  and  when  the  young 
moon  cowered  among  the  ragged  clouds  of  a  rainy  golden 
sky  and  the  last  bird  slipped  like  a  shadow  into  the 
rhododendrons,  such  airs  and  whispers  of  April  would 
steal  through  the  open  window.  Every  day,  too,  there 
were  flowery  tokens  of  hope  and  in  sheltered  corners  of 
the  garden  the  primroses  came  out  one  by  one,  an  im- 
perceptible assemblage  like  the  birth  of  stars  in  the 
luminous  green  west.  This  gray-eyed  virginal  month 
had  now  such  memories  of  the  last  progress  it  made 
through  her  life  that  Pauline  could  not  help  imputing  to 
the  season  a  sentimental  participation  in  her  life;  there 
was  a  poignancy  in  the  reopening  of  those  blue  Greek 
anemones  which  Guy,  a  year  ago,  had  likened  to  her 
eyes,  a  poignancy  that  might  have  been  present  if  the 
flowers  had  been  consciously  reminding  her  of  vanished 
delights.  Yet  it  was  unreasonable  to  encourage  such  an 
emotion;  or  did  she  indeed,  as  sometimes  was  half-whis- 
pered to  her  inmost  soul,  regret  the  slightest  bit  every- 
thing since  that  day  of  the  anemones? 

It  was  one  evening  toward  the  end  of  the  months  that 
Monica  joined  her  and  walked  up  and  down  the  edge  of 
the  lawn  where  in  the  grass  a  drift  of  purple  crocuses  had 
lately  been  flaming  for  her  solitary  adoration. 

"In  a  way,"  said  Pauline,  "they  are  my  favorite  flowers 
of  all.  I  don't  think  there  is  any  thrill  quite  like  the  first 
crocus  bud.  It  seems  to  me  that  as  far  as  I  can  look  back, 
oh,  Monica,  ever  so  far,  that  always  the  moment  I've  seen 
my  crocuses  budding  Winter  seems  to  fly  away." 

"I  remember  your  looking  for  them  when  you  were 

286 


ANOTHER   WINTER 

tiny,"  Monica  agreed.  "I  can  see  you  now  kneeling 
down,  and  the  mud  on  your  knees,  and  your  eyes  screwed 
up  when  you  told  me  about  your  discovery." 

They  talked  for  a  while  of  childish  days,  each  capping 
the  other's  evocation  of  those  hours  that  now  in  retro- 
spect appeared  like  the  gay  pictures  of  an  old  book  long 
ago  lost,  and  found  again  on  an  idle  afternoon.  They 
talked,  too,  of  Margaret  and  whether  she  would  marry 
Richard;  and  presently,  without  the  obvious  transition 
that  would  have  made  her  silent,  Pauline  found  that  they 
were  discussing  Guy  and  herself. 

"I  notice  he  doesn't  come  to  church  now  so  much  as 
he  did,"  said  Monica. 

Pauline  was  startled  by  an  abrupt  statement  of  some- 
thing which  among  all  the  other  worries  she  had  never 
defined  to  herself,  but  which,  now  that  Monica  revealed 
its  shape,  she  knew  had  occupied  a  dark  corner  at  the  back 
of  her  mind  more  threatening  than  any  of  the  rest.  Of 
course  she  began  at  once  to  make  excuses  for  Guy,  but 
her  sister,  who  brought  to  religion  the  same  scrupulous 
temperament  she  gave  to  her  music,  would  not  admit  their 
validity. 

"Don't  you  ever  ask  him  why  he  hasn't  been?"  she 
persisted. 

"Oh,  of  course  not.  Why,  I  couldn't,  Monica!  I 
should  never  feel  .  .  .  Oh  no,  Monica,  it  would  really  be 
impossible  for  me  to  talk  to  Guy  about  his  faith." 

"His  faith  seems  rather  to  have  frozen  lately,"  said 
Monica. 

"He's  been  upset  and  disappointed." 

"All  the  more  reason  for  going  to  church,"  Monica 
urged. 

"Yes,  for  you,  darling,  or  for  me;  but  Guy  may  be 
different." 

"There's  no  room  for  moods  in  one's  religious  duties. 
The  artistic  temperament  is  not  provided  for." 

That  serene  and  nunlike  conviction  of  tone  made  Pau- 

287 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

line  feel  a  little  rebellious,  and  yet  in  its  corroboration  of 
her  own  uneasiness  she  could  not  laugh  it  aside. 

"Well,  even  if  there's  no  excuse  for  him  and  even  sup- 
posing it  made  me  dreadfully  anxious,"  she  affirmed,  "I 
still  wouldn't  say  a  word  to  him." 

"Does  he  know  you  go  to  Confession?" 

Pauline  blushed.  Monica  was  like  a  Roman  Catholic 
in  the  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  she  alluded  to  some- 
thing that  for  Pauline  pierced  such  sanctities  as  could 
scarcely  even  be  mentioned  by  herself  to  her  own  soul. 

"Monica,  you  don't  really  think  that  I  ought  to  speak 
of  that,"  she  stammered.  Not  even  to  her  sister  could 
she  bring  herself  to  utter  the  sacramental  word. 

"I  certainly  think  you  should,"  said  Monica.  "When 
you  and  Guy  are  married  it  would  be  terrible  if  your 
duties  were  to  be  the  cause  of  a  disagreement.  Why, 
he  might  even  persuade  you  to  give  up  going  to  Con- 
fession." 

"Darling  Monica,"  said  Pauline,  nervously,  "I'd  rather 
you  didn't  talk  about  this  any  more.  You  see,  you're  so 
much  better  than  I,  and  you've  thought  so  much  more 
deeply  than  I  have  about  religion.  I  don't  think  I  shall 
ever  be  able  to  make  my  faith  so  narrow  a  ...  so  strict 
a  rule  as  yours  is.  No,  please,  Monica,  don't  let  us  talk 
about  this  subject  any  more." 

"I  only  mentioned  it  because  I'm  afraid  that  with  your 
beautiful  nature  you  will  be  too  merciful  to  that  Guy  of 
yours." 

"Oh, and  I'd  really  rather  you  didn't  say  my  nature  was 
beautiful,"  Pauline  protested.  "Truthfully,  Monica  dar- 
ling, it's  a  very  ugly  nature  indeed,  and  I'm  afraid  it's 
getting  uglier  every  day." 

Her  sister's  cloistral  smile  flickered  upon  the  scene  like 
the  wan  February  sunlight. 

"I  do  hope  Guy  really  appreciates  you,"  was  what  she 
said. 

"See  how  the  sparrows  have  pulled  the  crocuses  into 

288 


ANOTHER   WINTER 

ribbons,"  Pauline  exclaimed.  And  so  that  Monica  could 
not  talk  to  her  any  more,  she  hailed  her  father,  who  was 
wandering  along  towards  the  house  on  the  other  side  of 
the  lawn.  When  he  sauntered  across  to  them  she  pointed 
out  the  destructiveness  of  the  sparrows. 

"Ah,  well,  my  dear,"  he  chuckled,  "most  florists  are 
worse." 

"Perhaps  I'm  a  florist,"  Monica  whispered,  "and  Guy 
may  be  only  a  mischievous  sparrow." 

Pauline  smiled  at  Monica  and  took  her  arm  gratefully 
and  affectionately. 

"We  shall  have  all  the  daffs  gone  before  we  know  where 
we  are,"  said  the  Rector.  "Maximus  is  out  under  the 
oaks.  And  King  Alfred  is  just  going  to  turn  down  his 
buds." 

"Dear  King  Alfred,"  said  Pauline.  "How  glad  I  shall 
be  to  say  good  morning  to  him  again!" 

Yes,  all  the  daffodils  would  soon  be  here  and  then  gone; 
and  beyond  this  austere  afternoon  already  she  could  fancy 
a  smell  of  March  winds. 

After  Monica's  question  it  was  no  longer  possible  for 
Pauline  when  she  was  alone  to  avoid  facing  the  problem 
of  Guy's  attitude  towards  religion.  The  repression  of  her 
anxiety  on  this  point  had  only  increased  the  force  of  it 
when  it  was  set  free  like  this  to  compete  with,  and,  in  fact, 
overshadow  all  other  cares.  Looking  back  to  her  earliest 
thoughts  of  the  world  as  it  would  one  day  affect  herself, 
she  remembered  how,  if  she  had  ever  imagined  some  one 
in  love  with  her,  she  had  always  created  a  figure  whose 
faith  would  be  an  eternal  and  joyful  contemplation.  She 
had  never  invented  for  herself  a  marriage  with  some  one 
merely  good-looking  or  rich  or  endowed  with  any  of  the 
romantic  attributes  that  young  girls  were  supposed  to 
award  their  ideals,  as  her  cousins  would  say,  of  men. 
When  Guy  entered  her  life,  the  only  gift  he  brought  her 
for  which  she  was  at  all  prepared  was  the  conviction  of 
his  faith.  This  indeed  was  his  spiritual  and  mental  reality 

289 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

for  her;  the  rest  of  him  was  a  figment,  a  dream  that  might 
pass  suddenly  away.  The  visit  of  his  father  had  given 
her  a  more  clearly  defined  assurance  of  his  existence  on 
earth,  but  his  faith  had  been  the  heart  of  the  immortal 
substance  of  her  love  for  Guy.  The  endlessness  of  their 
union  was  always  present  in  her  thoughts,  the  ultimate 
consolation  of  whatever  delays  they  might  be  called  upon 
to  endure.  Very  often,  even  at  the  beginning  of  the  en- 
gagement, Guy  had  frightened  her  sometimes  by  his  in- 
difference to  immortality — sometimes  by  his  harping  upon 
the  swift  flight  of  youth,  sometimes  by  his  manifest  in- 
dulgence of  her  creed.  All  these  doubts,  however,  of  his 
sympathy  were  allayed  by  his  apparently  deliberate 
pleasure  in  worship.  She  was  angry  with  herself  then  for 
her  mistrust  of  him,  and  her  contentment  had  been  per- 
fect when  in  church  he  knelt  beside  her  on  that  birthday 
of  his,  that  day  of  their  avowed  betrothal,  and  on  all 
those  other  occasions  when  he  had  given  an  outward 
proof  of  his  faith.  Now  as  she  looked  back  on  his  ab- 
sence from  church  lately,  she  could  not  but  wonder  whether 
all  his  attendance  had  not  been  a  kind  of  fair-weather 
spoiling  of  her  that  could  not  withstand  the  least  stress  of 
worldly  circumstance.  She  began  to  torment  herself  over 
every  light  remark  that  might  have  been  a  sneer  and  to 
look  forward  dreadfully  to  Guy's  abrupt  declaration  of  a 
profound  disbelief  in  everything  she  held  most  sacred. 
His  cleverness,  as  he  hated  her  to  call  it,  intervened  and 
seemed  to  wrench  them  asunder;  and  the  more  she  pon- 
dered his  behavior,  the  more  she  became  convinced  that 
all  the  time  Guy's  religion  had  merely  been  Guy's  kind- 
ness. This  discovery  was  not  to  make  her  love  him  less; 
but  it  did  throw  upon  her  the  responsibility  of  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  had  nothing  within  himself  to  fortify  his 
soul,  should  mishap  destroy  his  worldly  confidence. 

For  a  long  time  Pauline  lay  awake  in  the  darkness, 
fretting  herself  on  account  of  Guy's  resourcelessness  of 
spirit,  and  to  her  imagination  concentrated  on  this  regard 

290 


ANOTHER   WINTER 

of  him  every  hour  seemed  to  make  his  solitude  more  ter- 
rible. Of  her  own  religion  she  did  not  think,  and  Monica's 
anxiety  about  their  agreement  after  marriage  was  without 
the  least  hint  of  danger.  The  possibility  of  any  one's, 
even  Guy's,  influencing  her  own  faith  was  inconceivable; 
nor  was  she  at  all  occupied  with  her  own  disappointment 
at  not  finding  Guy  constant  to  her  belief  in  him.  Pauline's 
one  grief  was  for  him,  that  now  when  things  were  going 
badly  he  should  be  without  spiritual  hope.  Suddenly  her 
warm  bed  seemed  to  her  wrong  and  luxurious  in  compari- 
son with  the  chill  darkness  she  imagined  about  Guy's 
soul  at  this  moment.  Impulsively  she  threw  back  the 
sheets  and  knelt  down  beside  the  bed  to  pray  for  his 
peace.  So  vividly  was  she  conscious  of  the  need  for 
prayer  that  she  was  carried  to  undreamed-of  heights  of 
supplication,  to  strange  summits  whereon  it  seemed  that 
if  she  could  not  pray  she  would  never  know  how  to  pray 
again.  Ordinarily  her  devotions  had  been  but  a  beauti- 
ful and  simple  end  or  beginning  of  the  day;  they  were 
associated  with  the  early  warmth  of  the  sunlight  or  with 
the  gentle  flutters  of  roosting  birds;  they  were  the  com- 
forting and  tangible  pledges  of  a  childhood  not  yet  utterly 
departed.  Now  the  fires  and  ecstasies  of  a  more  search- 
ing faith  had  seized  Pauline.  No  longer  did  there  pass 
before  her  eyes  a  procession  of  gay-habited  saints,  glad 
celestial  creatures  that  smiled  down  upon  her  from  a 
paradise  not  much  farther  away  than  the  Rectory  garden; 
no  longer  did  she  find  herself  surrounded  by  the  well- 
loved  figures  who  when  death  took  her  to  them  would 
hold  out  their  arms  in  actual  welcome  and  whom  she 
would  recognize  one  by  one.  To-night  these  visions  were 
uncapturable,  and  beyond  the  darkness  they  had  for- 
saken stretched  a  terrifying  void  and  beyond  the  void 
was  nothing  but  light  that  seemed  to  have  the  power  of 
thinking,  "I  am  Truth!"  A  speck  in  that  void  she  saw 
Guy  spinning  away  from  her,  and  it  seemed  that  unless 
she  prayed  he  would  be  spun  irremediably  out  of  her  con- 

291 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

sciousness.  It  seemed  that  the  fierceness  of  her  prayer 
was  like  the  fierceness  of  a  flame  that  was  granted  the 
power  to  sustain  him,  for  when  sometimes  the  tongues  of 
fire  languished  Guy  would  sink  so  far  that  only  by  sum- 
moning fresh  force  from  the  light  beyond  could  she  bring 
him  back.  Gradually,  however,  her  power  was  waning, 
and  with  whatever  desperate  force  she  prayed  he  could 
never  be  brought  back  to  the  point  from  which  he  had  last 
slipped.  He  was  spinning  away  into  a  horror  of  black- 
ness. .  .  . 

"O  Holy  Ghost,  save  him!"  she  cried.  Then  Pauline 
fainted,  and  wondered  to  find  herself  lying  upon  the  cold 
floor  when  she  woke  as  from  a  dream.  Yet  it  was  not 
like  the  gasping  rescue  of  oneself  from  a  nightmare,  for 
she  lay  awake  a  long  while  afterwards  in  peace,  and  she 
slept  as  if  upon  a  victory  and  very  early  in  the  morning 
went  to  church. 

The  days  when  the  thrushes  sang  matins  were  come, 
and  all  the  way  she  heard  freshets  of  holy  song  pouring 
down  through  the  air.  She  and  her  family  always  knelt 
apart  from  one  another,  and  this  morning  Pauline  chose 
a  place  hidden  from  the  others,  a  place  where  she  could 
lean  her  cheek  against  a  pillar  and  be  soothed  by  the 
cool  touch  of  the  stone  like  the  assurance  of  unfathom- 
able and  maternal  love.  Now  to  her  calm  spirit  returned 
the  vision  of  those  happy  heavenly  creatures,  the  bright- 
suited  and  intimate  companions  of  her  childhood.  They 
welcomed  her  this  morning  and  thronged  about  her  down- 
cast eyes  with  many  angels,  too,  that  like  Tobit's  angel, 
walked  by  her  side.  Only  her  father's  mellow  voice  spoke 
from  the  chancel  of  earth,  and  even  he  in  his  violet 
chasuble  took  his  place  among  the  saints,  and  when  she 
went  up  to  the  altar  Heaven  was  once  again  very  near 
to  her. 

In  the  morning  coolness  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
believe  that  last  night  she  had  fainted,  and  she  began  to 
believe  the  whole  experience  had  been  a  dream's  agony. 

292 


ANOTHER    WINTER 

However,  whether  it  were  or  not,  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  ask  Guy  a  direct  question  this  afternoon.  If,  as 
she  feared,  he  was  feeling  hostile  to  religion,  she  would 
accept  the  warning  of  the  night  and  give  all  her  deter- 
mination to  prayer  for  his  faith  to  return. 

When  they  were  together,  it  was  for  a  long  time  im- 
possible to  begin  the  subject,  and  it  was  not  until  Guy 
asked  what  was  making  her  so  abstracted  that  Pauline 
could  ask  why  he  never  came  to  church  any  more. 

In  the  pause  before  he  answered  she  suffered  anew  the 
torment  of  that  struggle  in  the  darkness. 

"Does  it  worry  you  when  I  don't  come?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  yes,  it  does  rather." 

"Then,  of  course,  I  will  come,"  said  Guy,  at  once. 

Now  this  was  exactly  the  reason  for  which  least  of  all 
she  wanted  him  to  come,  and  a  trace  of  her  mortification 
may  have  been  visible,  because  he  asked  immediately  if 
that  did  not  please  her. 

"Guy,  don't  you  want  to  come  to  church?  You  used 
to  come  happily,  didn't  you?" 

"I  think  I  came  chiefly  to  be  near  you,"  he  said. 

"That  does  make  me  so  unhappy.  I'd  almost  rather 
you  came  out  of  politeness  to  Father." 

"Well,  that  was  another  reason,"  Guy  admitted. 

"And  you  never  came  because  you  wanted  to?"  she 
asked,  miserably. 

"Of  course  I  wanted  to." 

"But  because  you  believed?" 

"In  what?" 

"Oh,  Guy,  don't  be  so  cruel.  Don't  you  believe  in 
anything?" 

"I  believe  in  you,"  he  said.  "Pauline,  I  believe  in  you 
so  passionately  that  when  I  am  with  you  I  believe  in  what 
you  believe." 

"Then  you  haven't  any  faith?" 

"I  want  to  have  it,"  said  Guy.  "If  God  won't  con- 
descend to  give  it  to  me  .  .  ."  he  broke  off  with  a  shrug. 

293 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"But  religion  is  either  true  or  it  isn't  true,  and  if  it 
isn't  true  why  do  you  encourage  me  in  lies?"  she  de- 
manded, with  desperate  entreaty. 

"I'm  ready  to  believe,"  he  said. 

"How  can  you  expect  to  have  faith  if  your  reason  for 
it  is  merely  to  sit  next  me  in  church  ?"  she  asked,  bitterly. 

"Now,  I  think  it's  you  who  are  being  cruel,"  said  Guy. 

"I  don't  care.  I  don't  care  if  I  am  cruel.  You'll 
break  my  heart." 

"Good  God!"  Guy  exclaimed.  "Haven't  I  enough  to 
torment  me  without  religion  appearing  upon  the  scene? 
If  you  want  me  to  hate  it.  .  .  .  No,  Pauline,  I'm  sorry  .  .  . 
you  mustn't  think  that  I  don't  long  to  have  your  faith. 
If  I  only  could.  .  .  .  Oh,  Pauline,  Pauline!" 

She  yielded  to  his  consolation,  and  when  he  told  her  of 
the  poems  sent  back  almost  by  return  of  post  from  the 
second  publisher  she  must  open  wide  her  compassionate 
arms.  Nevertheless,  he  had  somehow  maltreated  their 
love;  and  Pauline  was  aware  of  a  wild  effort  to  prepare 
for  sorrow,  whether  near  at  hand  or  still  far  off  she  did 
not  know,  but  she  seemed  to  hear  it  like  a  wind  rising  at 
sunset. 


ANOTHER    SPRING 


MARCH 

WHEN  the  poems  were  returned  by  three  publishers 
within  the  first  fortnight  of  March,  Guy  was  in- 
clined to  surrender  his  vocation  and  to  think  about  such 
regular  work  as  would  banish  the  reproach  he  began  to 
fancy  was  now  perceptible  at  the  back  of  everybody's 
eyes.  The  weather  was  abominably  cold,  and  even 
Flashers  Mead  itself  was  no  longer  the  embodiment  of 
the  old  enthusiasm.  Already  in  order  to  pay  current  ex- 
penses he  was  drawing  upon  the  next  quarter,  and  the 
combination  of  tradesmen's  books  with  icy  draughts  curl- 
ing through  the  house  produced  an  atmosphere  of  per- 
petual exasperation.  It  always  seemed  to  be  coldest  on 
Monday  morning,  and  Miss  Peasey  would  breathe  over 
his  shoulder  while  he  was  adding  up  the  bills. 

"We  apparently  live  on  butter,"  he  grumbled. 

"Oh  no,  it  was  really  lamb  you  had  yesterday,"  the 
housekeeper  maintained,  irrelevantly. 

"I  said  we  apparently  live  on  butter,"  Guy  shouted. 

Then,  of  course  Miss  Peasey  would  poke  her  veiny  nose 
right  down  into  the  book,  while  the  draught  blew  her  hair 
about  and  unpleasantly  tickled  his  cheek. 

"It's  the  best  butter,"  she  said,  sorrowfully,  at  last. 

"But  my  watch  is  quite  all  right." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"I  made  an  allusion  to  Alice  in  Wonderland"  he 
shouted. 

Miss  Peasey  retired  from  the  room  in  dudgeon,  and 
Guy  wasted  ten  minutes  in  examining  various  theories 
20  297 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

on  what  his  housekeeper  could  have  thought  he  meant 
by  his  last  remark.  Finally  he  wrote  off  to  a  friend  of 
his,  an  ardent  young  Radical  peer  with  whom  he  had 
shared  rooms  at  Oxford. 

FLASHERS  MEAD,  WYCHFORD,  OXON, 

March  i$th. 

DEAR  COM, — Why  the  dickens  haven't  you  written  to  me 
for  such  ages?  I'm  going  to  chuck  this  place.  Haven't  you 
got  any  scheme  on  hand  for  teaching  the  democracy  to  find 
out  the  uselessness  of  your  order?  Why  not  a  new  critical  weekly 
with  me  as  bondslave-in-chief?  Or  doesn't  one  of  your  National 
Liberals  want  a  bright  young  fellow  to  dot  his  i's  and  pick  up 
his  h's?  For  £250  a  year  I'll  serve  any  of  them,  write  his 
speeches,  interview  his  constituents  or  even  teach  his  cubs  to 
prey  on  the  body  politic  like  Father  Lion  himself.  Seriously, 
though,  if  you  hear  of  anything,  do  think  of  me. 

Yours  ever, 

G.  H. 

Comeragh  wrote  back  at  once: 

420  BROOK  STREET,  W., 

March  1 6th. 

DEAR  OLD  GUY, — If  you  will  bury  yourself  like  a  misan- 
thropic badger,  you  can't  expect  to  be  written  to  by  every  post. 
Oddly  enough  there  has  been  some  talk  of  starting  a  new  paper; 
at  least  it  isn't  really  very  odd  because  the  subject  is  mooted 
three  times  a  day  in  the  advanced  political  circles  round  which 
I  revolve.  However,  just  at  present  the  scheme  is  in  abey- 
ance. Never  mind,  I'll  fetch  you  out  of  your  earth  at  the  first 
excuse  that  offers  itself.  Do  you  ever  go  in  and  see  the  Balliol 
people?  My  young  brother's  up  now,  you  know.  Ask  him  over 
to  lunch  some  day.  He's  a  shining  light  of  Tory  Democracy 
and  is  going  to  preserve,  or  I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  conserve,  the 
honor  of  our  family.  When  are  your  poems  coming  out?  I 
heard  from  Tom  Anstruther  the  other  day.  He  seems  rather 
hurt  that  an  attache  at  Madrid  is  not  given  an  opportunity  of 
adjusting  or  upsetting  the  balance  of  power  in  Europe.  I'll  try 
to  get  down  for  a  week-end,  but  I'm  betraying  my  order  by 
voting  against  an  obscurantist  majority  whenever  I  can,  and 

298 


ANOTHER   SPRING 

plotting  hard  against  the  liberties  of  landowners  when  I'm  not 
voting.  However,  when  the  House  flies  away  to  search  for 
Summer  I'll  drop  out  of  the  flock  and  perch  a  while  on  your  roof. 
One  thing  I  will  promise,  which  is  that  when  I'm  Prime  Minister 
you  shall  be  offered  the  Laurel  at  £200  a  year. 

Yours  ever, 

COM. 

It  was  jolly  to  hear  from  Comeragh  like  this,  and  the 
letter  opened  for  Guy  a  prospect  of  something  that,  when 
he  came  to  think  about  it,  appeared  very  much  like  a 
retreat.  He  realized  abruptly  that  the  strain  of  the  last 
two  months  had  been  playing  upon  his  nerves  to  such  an 
extent  that  the  notion  of  leaving  Wychford  was  no  longer 
very  distasteful.  The  realization  of  his  potential  apostasy 
came  with  rather  a  shock,  and  he  felt  that  he  ought  some- 
how to  atone  to  Pauline  for  the  disloyalty  towards  her  his 
attitude  seemed  to  involve.  He  began  to  go  to  church 
again  in  a  desperate  endeavor  to  pursue  the  phantom  that 
she  called  faith,  but  this  very  endeavor  only  made  more 
apparent  the  vital  difference  in  their  relations  with  life. 
She  always  had  for  his  attempts  to  capture  something 
worth  while  for  himself  in  religion  a  kind  of  questioning 
anxiety  which  was  faintly  irritating;  and  though  he  al- 
ways pushed  the  problem  hastily  out  of  sight,  the  fact 
that  he  could  now  be  irritated  by  her  was  dolefully  sig- 
nificant. 

All  through  this  month  of  maddening  east  wind  Guy 
felt  that  he  stood  upon  the  verge  of  a  catastrophe,  and 
the  despatch  of  the  poems  which  at  first  had  done  so 
much  to  help  matters  along  was  now  only  another  source 
of  vexation.  Formerly  he  had  always  possessed  the 
refuge  of  work,  but  in  this  perpetual  uncertainty  he  could 
not  settle  down  to  anything  fresh,  and  the  expectation 
every  morning  of  his  poems  being  once  again  rejected  was 
a  handicap  to  the  whole  day.  Partly  to  plunge  himself 
into  a  reaction  and  partly  to  avoid  and  even  to  crush 
their  spiritual  divergence,  Guy  always  made  love  pas- 

299 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

sionately  to  Pauline  during  these  days.  He  was  aware 
that  she  was  terribly  tried  by  this,  but  the  knowledge 
made  him  more  selfishly  passionate.  A  sort  of  brutality 
had  entered  into  their  relation  which  Guy  hated,  but  to 
which  in  these  circumstances  that  made  him  feverishly 
glad  to  wound  her  he  allowed  more  liberty  every  day. 
The  merely  physical  side  of  this  struggle  between  them 
was,  of  course,  accentuated  by  the  gag  placed  upon  dis- 
cussion. He  would  not  give  her  the  chance  of  saying 
why  she  feared  his  kisses,  and  he  took  an  unfair  advan- 
tage of  the  conviction  that  Pauline  would  never  declare 
a  reason  until  he  demanded  one.  He  was  horribly  con- 
scious of  abusing  her  love  for  him,  and  the  more  he  was 
aware  of  that  the  more  brutal  he  showed  himself  until 
sometimes  he  used  to  wonder  in  dismay  if  at  the  back  of 
his  mind  the  impulse  to  destroy  his  love  altogether  had 
not  been  born. 

Easter  was  approaching,  and  Pauline  went  to  Oxford 
for  a  week  to  get  Summer  clothes.  When  she  came  back, 
Guy  found  her  attitude  changed.  She  was  remote,  al- 
most evasive,  and  at  the  back  of  her  tenderest  glance 
was  now  a  wistful  appeal  that  perplexed  his  ardor. 

"I  feel  you  don't  want  me  to  kiss  you,"  he  said,  re- 
proachfully. "What  has  happened?  Why  have  you 
come  back  from  Oxford  so  cold?  What  has  happened  to 
you,  Pauline?" 

Her  eyes  took  fire,  melted  into  tenderness,  flamed  once 
more,  and  then  were  quenched  in  rising  tears. 

The  voice  in  which  she  answered  him  seemed  to  come 
from  another  world. 

"Guy,  I  am  not  cold  .  .  .  I'm  not  cold  enough.  .  .  ." 

She  flung  herself  away  from  his  gesture  of  endearment 
and  buried  her  cheeks  in  the  cushion  of  the  faded  old 
settee.  A  wild  calm  had  fallen  upon  the  room,  as  if  like 
the  atmosphere  before  a  thunder-storm  it  could  register 
a  warning  of  the  emotional  tempest  at  hand.  The  books, 
the  furniture,  the  very  pattern  of  birds  and  daisies  upon 

300 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

the  wall  stood  out  sharply,  almost  luridly  it  seemed;  the 
cuckoo  from  the  passage  called  the  hour  in  notes  of  alarm, 
as  if  a  storm-cock  were  sweeping  up  to  cover  from  danger- 
ous open  country. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Guy  asked.  He  knew  that  he 
was  carrying  the  situation  between  Pauline  and  himself 
farther  along  than  he  had  ever  taken  it  since  the  night 
they  met.  Yet  nothing  could  have  stopped  his  course 
at  this  moment  and,  if  the  end  should  ruin  his  life,  he 
would  persist. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  repeated. 

"Don't  ask  me,"  she  sobbed.     "It's  cruel  to  ask  me." 

"You  mean  your  mother  .  .  ."  he  began. 

"No,  no,  it's  myself,  myself." 

"My  dearest,  if  it's  only  yourself,  you  need  not  be 
afraid.  Why,  you're  so  adorable.  .  .  ." 

Pauline  seemed  to  cry  out  at  the  wound  he  had  given 
her,  and  Guy  started  back,  afraid  for  an  instant  of  what 
he  was  provoking. 

"Don't  treat  me  like  a  stupid  little  girl  that  petting 
can  cure.  I'm  not  adorable,  I'm  bad  .  .  .  I'm  .  .  .  oh, 
Guy,  I  am  so  unhappy!" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'bad'?"  he  asked.  "You  talk 
as  if  we  were  .  .  .  Really,  darling,  you  don't  grasp  life  at 
all." 

"Guy,"  she  said,  turning  to  him  with  fierce  earnestness, 
"don't  persuade  me  I've  done  nothing.  I  have.  I 
ought  not.  I've  known  that  all  the  time.  If  you  don't 
want  me  to  be  miserable  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  you 
mustn't  persuade  me.  I've  been  so  weak.  .  .  ." 

He  was  annoyed  at  the  exaggeration  in  her  words  and 
perplexed  by  her  violence. 

"Anybody  would  think,  you  know,"  he  told  her,  "that 
we  have  behaved  terribly." 

"We  have.    We  have." 

Her  mouth  was  drawn  with  pain;  her  eyes  were  wild. 

"But  we've  not,"  Guy  contradicted,  mustering  desper- 
301 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

ately  all  the  forces  of  normality  to  allay  Pauline's  over- 
strained ideas.  "We've  not,"  he  repeated.  "You  don't 
understand,  darling  Pauline,  that  when  you  talk  like  that 
you  give  the  impression  of  something  that  is  unimaginable 
of  you.  It's  dreadful  to  have  to  talk  about  this,  but  it's 
better  that  we  should  discuss  it  than  that  you  should 
torture  yourself  needlessly  like  this." 

"It's  not  what  we've  done  so  much,"  she  said.  "It's 
what  you've  made  me  think  about  you." 

Guy  laughed  rather  miserably. 

"That  seems  a  very  trifling  reason  for  so  much  .  .  . 
well,  you  know,  it's  very  nearly  hysteria." 

"To  you,  perhaps,"  she  retorted,  bitterly.  "To  me  it's 
like  madness." 

"I  can't  understand  these  morbid  fancies  of  yours. 
What  have  you  been  doing  in  Oxford?  Ah,  I  know,"  he 
shouted,  in  a  rage  of  sudden  divination.  "You've  been 
talking  to  a  priest.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  I  could  burn  every  interfer- 
ing scoundrel  who  .  .  ."  The  scene  swept  over  him,  chok- 
ing the  words  in  his  throat  with  indignant  impotent  jeal- 
ousy. "You've  been  to  Confession.  And  what  good 
have  you  got  from  it,  but  lies,  lies?" 

"I've  always  been  to  Confession,"  Pauline  answered, 
coldly. 

In  a  flash  Guy  visualized  her  religious  life  as  one  long 
creeping  towards  a  gloomy  Confessional,  where  lurked  a 
smooth-faced  priest  who  poured  his  poison  into  her  ears. 

"You  shall  go  no  more,"  he  vowed.  "What  right  have 
you  to  drag  the  holiness  of  love  in  the  mud  of  a  priest's 
mind?" 

"You  don't  know  how  stupidly  you're  talking,"  said 
Pauline.  "You  say  I  exaggerate.  You  don't  know  how 
much  you  are  exaggerating.  You  don't  understand." 

"I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  have  faith!  How  can  I 
have  faith  when  I  hear  of  priests  degrading  our  love? 
What  right  had  you  to  go  to  a  priest?  What  does  he 
know  of  you  or  me?  What  has  he  suffered?  What  does 

302 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

he  understand?  Why  do  you  listen  to  him  and  pay  no 
heed  to  me?  What  did  you  say?" 

Pauline  looked  at  him  in  silence. 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  repeated,  angrily.  He  was 
caring  for  nothing  at  that  moment  but  to  tear  from  her 
the  history  of  the  scene  that  made  a  furnace  of  his  brain. 
"He  must  have  tried  to  put  the  idea  into  your  head  that 
you've  been  doing  wrong.  I  say  you  have  done  nothing 
wrong.  I  suppose  you  told  him  you  came  out  at  night 
with  me  on  the  river,  and  I  suppose  he  concluded  from 
that  .  .  .  Oh,  Pauline,  I  cannot  let  you  be  a  prey  to  the 
mind  of  a  priest.  You  don't  realize  what  it  means  to 
me.  You  don't  realize  the  raging  jealousy  it  rouses." 

"Guy,"  she  moaned,  "love  is  too  much  for  me.  I  can't 
bear  the  uncertainty.  Your  debts  .  .  .  the  sending  back 
of  your  poems  .  .  .  the  fear  that  we  shall  never  be  married 
.  .  .  the  doubts  .  .  .  the  thought  that  I've  deceived  my 
family  .  .  .  the  misery  I  bring  to  you  because  I  can't 
think  everything  is  right.  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  want  you  always  to  agree  with  me.  I've 
promised  never  to  ask  you  again  to  come  out  with  me  at 
night.  I'll  even  promise  never  to  kiss  you  again  until 
we  are  married.  But  you  must  promise  me  never  again 
to  go  to  Confession." 

"I  can't  give  up  what  I  believe  is  right,"  she  said. 

"Then  I  won't  give  up  what  I  believe  is  right." 

He  strained  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  lips  so  closely 
that  they  were  white  instead  of  red.  Then  he  went  from 
her  in  an  impulse  to  let  her,  if  she  would,  break  off  the 
engagement.  If  he  had  stayed  he  must  have  blasphemed 
the  religion  which  was  soiling  with  its  murk  their  love. 
He  must  have  hurt  her  so  deeply  that  he  would  have 
compelled  her  to  bid  him  never  come  back.  It  was  for 
her  now,  the  responsibility  of  going  on,  and  she  should 
find  what  religion  would  do  for  her  when  she  was  left 
alone  to  battle  with  the  infamous  suggestions  the  fiction 
was  giving  to  her  mind.  She  should  find  that  beside  his 

3°3 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

love  religion  was  nothing,  that  the  folly  would  topple 
down  and  betray  her  at  this  very  moment.  When  next 
he  saw  her,  she  would  have  forgotten  her  priests  and  their 
mummery;  she  would  think  only  of  him  and  live  only 
for  him. 

"Blow,  you  damned  wind,"  he  shouted  to  the  brilliant 
and  tranquil  March  day.  "Blow,  blow,  can't  you? 
You've  blown  all  these  days,  and  now  when  I  want  you 
in  my  face  you  lie  still." 

But  the  weather  stayed  serene,  and  Guy  had  to  run  in 
order  to  tire  the  fury  in  his  mind.  He  did  not  stop  until 
he  realized  by  the  scampering  of  the  March  hares  to  right 
and  left  of  his  path  how  very  absurd  he  must  appear  even 
to  the  blind  heavens. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  standing  still  and  ad- 
dressing a  thorn-tree  on  the  green  down.  "Why,  of 
course,  now  I  realize  the  Reformation!" 

This  sudden  apprehension  of  a  tremendous  historical 
fact  was  rather  disconcerting  in  the  way  it  brought  home 
to  him  the  uselessness  of  all  the  information  that  he  had 
for  years  absorbed  without  any  real  response  of  recogni- 
tion. It  brought  home  to  him  how  much  he  would  have 
to  discover  for  himself  and  appalled  him  with  the  mock- 
ery it  made  of  his  confidence  hitherto.  How  if  all  those 
poems  he  had  written  were  merely  external  emotion  like 
his  conception  of  religion  until  this  moment?  He  really 
hoped  the  manuscript  would  come  back  this  evening  from 
whatever  publisher  had  last  eyed  it  disdainfully,  so  that 
in  the  light  of  this  revelation  of  his  youthfulness  he  could 
judge  his  life's  achievement  afresh.  It  was  indeed  fright- 
ening that  in  one  moment  all  his  comfortable  standards 
could  be  struck  away  from  beneath  his  feet,  for  if  an  out- 
burst of  jealousy  on  account  of  a  priest's  interference 
could  suddenly  reshape  his  conception  of  history,  what 
fundamental  changes  in  his  conception  of  art  might  not 
be  waiting  for  him  a  little  way  ahead  ? 
The  spectacle  of  Pauline's  simple  creed  had  hitherto 

304 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

pleasantly  affected  his  senses;  and  she  had  taken  her  place 
with  the  heroines  of  romantic  poets  and  painters.  It  had 
been  pleasant  to  murmur: 

Pray  but  one  prayer  for  me  'twixt  thy  closed  lips, 
Think  but  one  thought  of  me  up  in  the  stars: 

and  to  compare  himself  with  the  lover  of  The  Blessed 
Damozel  had  been  a  luxurious  melancholy.  Pauline  and 
he  had  worshiped  together  in  chapels  of  Lyonesse,  where, 
if  he  had  knelt  beside  her  with  a  rather  tender  condescen- 
sion towards  her  prayers,  he  had  always  been  moved  sin- 
cerely by  the  decorative  appeal  they  made  to  him.  He 
had  felt  a  sentimental  awe  of  her  hushed  approach  to 
the  altar,  and  he  had  derived  a  kind  of  sentimental  satis- 
faction from  the  perfection  of  her  attitude,  perhaps,  even 
more,  he  had  placed  upon  it  a  sentimental  reliance.  Her 
faith  had  been  the  decorative  adjunct  of  a  great  deal  of 
his  verse,  and  he  flushed  hotly  to  remember  lines  that 
now  appeared  as  damnable  insincerities  with  which  he 
had  allowed  his  pen  to  play.  All  that  piety  of  hers  he 
had  sung  so  prettily  was  real  and  possessed  an  intrinsic 
power  to  injure  him,  so  that  what  he  had  patronized  and 
encouraged  could  rise  up  and  pit  itself  deliberately  against 
him.  Pauline  actually  believed  in  her  religion,  believed 
in  it  to  the  extent  of  dishonoring  their  love  to  appease  the 
mumbo-jumbo.  That  something  so  monstrously  inexist- 
ent  could  have  any  such  power  was  barely  comprehensible, 
and  yet  here  he  was  faced  with  what  easily  might  prove 
to  be  a  force  powerful  enough  to  annihilate  their  love. 
He  remembered  how  in  reading  of  Christina  Rossetti's 
renunciation  of  a  lover  who  did  not  believe  as  she  believed, 
he  had  thought  of  the  incident  as  a  poet's  exaggeration. 
And  it  might  well  have  happened.  Now,  indeed,  he  could 
see  why  she  was  so  much  the  greatest  poetess  of  them  all; 
her  faith  had  been  real.  Lines  from  that  Sonnet  of  son- 
nets came  back  to  him,  broken  lines  but  full  of  dread: 

305 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

I  love  .  .  .  God  the  most; 
Would  lose  not  Him  but  you,  must  one  be  lost: 

And  if  Pauline  should  speak  so  to  him,  if  Pauline  should 
disown  him  at  the  bidding  of  her  phantom  gods?  How 
the  thought  swept  into  oblivion  all  his  pitiful  achievement, 
all  his  fretful  emotions  set  down  in  rhyme.  Either  he 
must  convince  her  that  she  was  affrighted  by  vain  fancies 
or  he  must  bow  before  this  reality  of  belief  and  seek 
humbly  the  truth  where  she  discovered  it.  Yet  if  he  took 
that  course  it  held  no  pledge  of  faith  for  him.  Shame- 
facedly and  scarcely  able  to  bear  even  the  thorn-tree's 
presence,  Guy  knelt  down  and  prayed  that  he  might  be 
given  Pauline's  single  heart.  The  song  of  the  innumer- 
able larks  rose  into  the  crystalline,  but  all  the  prayers 
tumbled  down  from  that  stuffy  pavilion  of  sky.  The 
moment  that  the  first  emotional  aspiration  was  thus  de- 
feated Guy  was  only  conscious  of  his  lapse  into  super- 
stition, and,  furious  with  the  surrender,  he  went  walking 
over  the  downs  in  a  determination  to  shake  Pauline's  faith 
at  whatever  the  cost  temporarily  to  the  beautiful  appear- 
ance of  their  love. 

He  wrote  that  evening  in  a  fine  frenzy  of  declamation 
against  God,  affirming  in  his  verse  the  rights  of  man;  but 
on  reading  the  lines  through  next  morning  they  seemed  like 
the  first  vapors  of  adolescence;  and  when  he  turned  for 
consolation  to  Shelley  he  found  that  even  a  great  poet's 
rage  on  behalf  of  man  against  God  was  often  turgid  enough. 
It  was,  however,  a  hopeful  sign  that  he  could  still  perceive 
what  puddles  these  aerial  fountains  of  song  often  left 
behind  them,  and  he  was  glad  to  find  that  not  all  the 
value  of  critical  experience  had  been  destroyed  by  the 
imperative  need  to  readjust  his  values  of  reality. 

Birdwood  brought  a  note  from  Pauline  just  when  Guy 
had  burned  his  effusion  of  the  night  before  and  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  as  a  polemical  and  atheistic  rhymester 
he  was  of  the  very  poorest  quality. 

306 


ANOTHER   SPRING 

The  gardener  was  inclined  to  be  chatty,  and  when  the 
weather  and  the  flowers  in  season  had  been  discussed  at 
length,  he  observed  that  Miss  Pauline  was  not  looking  so 
well  as  she  ought  to  look. 

"You'll  have  to  speak  to  her  about  it,  Mr.  Hazlenut." 

Birdwood  had  never  learned  to  give  Guy  his  proper 
name,  and  there  had  been  many  jokes  between  him  and 
Pauline  about  this,  and  many  vows  by  Guy  that  one 
day  he  would  address  the  gardener  as  Birdseed.  How 
far  away  such  foolish  little  jokes  were  seeming  now. 

"It's  been  a  tiring  Spring,"  said  Guy.  "The  east 
wind  .  .  ." 

"Her  cheeks  isn't  nothing  like  so  rosy  as  they  was," 
said  the  gardener.  "You'll  excuse  the  liberty  I'm  taking 
in  mentioning  them,  but  having  known  Miss  Pauline  since 
she  couldn't  walk  .  .  .  Why  I  happen  to  mention  it  is  that 
there  was  a  certain  somebody  up  in  the  town  who  passed 
the  remark  to  me  and,  I  having  to  give  him  a  piece  of  my 
mind  pretty  sharp  on  account  of  him  talking  so  free,  it 
sort  of  stuck  in  my  memory  and  .  .  .  You  don't  think  she's 
middling?" 

"Oh  no,  I  think  she's  quite  well,"  said  Guy. 

"Well,  as  long  as  you  aren't  worrited,  I  don't  suppose 
I've  got  any  call  to  be  worrited;  only  any  one  can't  help 
it  a  bit  when  they  see  witches'  cheeks  on  a  young  lady. 
She  certainly  does  look  middling,  but  maybe,  as  you  say, 
it  is  this  unnatural  east  wind." 

Birdwood  touched  his  cap  and  retired,  but  his  words 
had  struck  at  Guy  remorsefully  while  he  walked  away  to 
a  corner  of  the  orchard  reading  Pauline's  letter.  The 
starlings  were  piping  a  sweet  monotony  of  Spring,  and 
daffodils,  that  he  and  she  had  planted  last  Summer  when 
they  came  back  from  Ladingford,  haunted  his  path. 

MY  DARLING, — Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me  this  morning? 
Why  weren't  you  in  the  orchard?  I  stayed  such  a  long  while  in 
the  churchyard,  but  you  never  came.  If  I  said  anything  yes- 

3°7 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

terday  that  hurt  your  feelings,  forgive  me.  You  mustn't  think 
that  I  was  angry  with  you  because  perhaps  I  spoke  angrily. 
Darling,  darling  Guy,  I  adore  you  so,  and  nothing  else  but  you 
matters  to  my  happiness.  I  should  not  have  spoken  about 
religion — I  don't  know  how  we  came  to  argue  about  it.  It  was 
unkind  of  me  to  be  depressed  and  sad  when  my  dearest  was 
sad.  Truly,  truly  I  am  so  anxious  about  your  poems  only  be- 
cause I  want  you  to  be  happy.  Sometimes  I  must  seem  selfish, 
but  you  know  that  before  anything  it  is  your  work  I  think  of. 
I'm  not  really  a  bit  worried  about  our  being  married.  I  have 
these  fits  of  depression  which  are  really  very  wrong.  I'm  not 
worried  about  anything  really,  only  I  had  a  dream  about  you 
last  month  which  frightened  me.  Oh,  Guy,  come  this  after- 
noon and  tell  me  you're  not  angry.  I  promise  you  that  I  won't 
make  you  miserable  with  my  stupid  depression.  Guy,  if  I  could 
only  tell  you  how  I  love  you.  If  you  only  knew  how  never, 
never  for  an  instant  do  I  care  for  anything  but  your  happiness. 
You  don't  really  want  me  to  give  up  believing  in  anything,  do 
you?  It  doesn't  really  make  you  angry,  does  it?  Come  and 
tell  me  this  afternoon  that  you've  forgiven 

Your 

PAULINE. 
I  love  you.    I  love  you. 

Gently  the  daffodils  swayed  in  this  light  breeze  of  dying 
March,  and  the  grass  was  already  tall  enough  to  sigh  forth 
its  transitory  Summer  tune.  Guy,  in  a  flood  of  penitence, 
hastened  at  once  to  the  Rectory  to  accuse  himself  to 
Pauline,  and  when  he  saw  her  watching  for  him  at  the 
nursery  window  he  had  no  regrets  that  could  stab  to 
wound  him  as  deeply  as  he  deserved  to  be  wounded.  She 
was  very  tender  and  still  that  afternoon,  and  as  he  held 
her  in  his  arms  there  seemed  to  him  nothing  more  worth 
while  in  life  than  her  cherishing.  For  them  sitting  in 
that  nursery  the  hours  swung  lazily  to  and  fro  in  felicity, 
and  all  the  time  there  was  nobody  to  disturb  the  recon- 
ciliation. They  talked  only  of  the  future  and  allowed 
recent  despairs  and  foreboding  agitations  to  slink  away 
disgraced.  Janet,  coming  to  take  away  the  tea-things, 

308 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

beamed  at  their  happiness  and  through  a  filigree  of  bare 
jasmine  twigs  the  slanting  sun  touched  with  new  life  the 
faded  wall-paper,  opening  wider,  it  seemed,  the  daisies' 
eyes,  mellowing  the  berries,  and  tinting  the  birds  with 
brighter  plumes  for  their  immutable  and  immemorial 
courtship. 

Plunged  deep  in  such  a  peace,  Guy,  prompted  by  dam- 
nable discord,  asked  idly  what  had  been  that  dream  of 
which  Pauline  had  spoken  in  her  letter.  She  was  unwilling 
for  a  long  while  to  tell  him,  but  he,  spurred  on  by  mis- 
chief itself,  persuaded  her  in  the  end,  and  she  recounted 
that  experience  of  waking  to  find  herself  prone  upon  the 
floor  of  her  room. 

"No  wonder  you're  looking  pale,"  he  exclaimed.  "Now 
you  see  the  result  of  exciting  yourself  unnecessarily." 

"But  it  was  so  vivid,"  she  protested,  "and  really  the 
light  was  blinding,  and  it  thought  so  terribly  all  the 
time." 

"I  shall  think  very  terribly  that  you've  been  reading 
some  spiritualistic  rot  in  a  novel,"  said  Guy,  "if  you  talk 
like  that.  Your  religion  may  be  true,  but  I'm  quite  sure 
these  conjuring  tricks  of  your  fancy  are  a  sign  of  hysteria. 
And  this  poor  speck  that  was  me?  How  did  you  know  it 
was  me  if  it  was  a  speck ?  Did  that  think,  too?  My  fool- 
ish Pauline,  you  encouraged  your  morbid  ideas  when  you 
were  awake,  and  when  you  were  asleep  you  paid  the 
penalty." 

She  had  gone  away  from  him  and  was  standing  by  the 
window. 

"Guy,  if  you  talk  like  that,  it  means  you  don't  really 
love  me.  It  means  you  have  no  sympathy,  that  you're 
cold  and  cruel  and  cynical." 

He  sighed  with  elaborate  compassion  for  her  state  of 
mind. 

"And  what  else?  I  wonder  how  you  ever  managed  to 
fall  in  love  with  me." 

"Sometimes  I  wonder,  too,"  she  said,  slowly. 
309 


FLASHERS   MEAD 

He  turned  quickly  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

Guy  regretted  before  he  was  half-way  down  the  pas- 
sage what  he  had  done,  but  he  steeled  himself  against 
going  back  by  persuading  himself  that  Pauline's  hysteria 
must  be  remorselessly  checked.  All  the  way  back  to 
Flashers  Mead  he  had  excuses  for  his  behavior,  and  all 
the  way  he  was  wondering  if  he  had  done  right.  Sup- 
posing that  she  were  to  persist  in  this  exaggeration  of 
everything,  who  could  say  into  what  extravagance  of  at- 
titude she  might  not  find  herself  driven?  Rage  seized 
him  against  this  malady  that  was  sapping  the  foundations 
of  their  love,  and  all  his  affection  for  her  was  obscured 
in  the  contemplation  of  that  overwrought  Pauline  who 
sacrificed  herself  to  baseless  doubts  and  alarms.  If  he 
once  admitted  her  right  to  dream  ridiculously  about  him, 
he  would  be  encouraging  her  upon  the  road  to  madness. 
Had  she  not  already  fondled  the  notion  of  going  mad,  just 
as  she  would  often  fondle  the  picture  of  herself  as  the 
heroine  of  an  unhappy  love-affair?  If  he  were  severe  now, 
she  would  surely  come  to  see  the  absurdity  of  these  re- 
ligious fears,  this  heart-searching  and  morbid  sensitive- 
ness. It  was  curious  that  he  was  able  to  keep  his  idea 
of  Pauline  herself  quite  apart  from  Pauline  as  the  subject 
of  nervous  depression.  He  was  practically  ascribing  to 
her  a  double  personality,  so  distinct  were  the  two  views 
of  her  in  his  mind.  When  he  got  home  he  found  the 
manuscript  had  been  sent  back  by  a  seventh  publisher, 
and  on  top  of  the  packet  lay  a  letter  from  his  friend 
Comeragh. 

420  BROOK  STREET,  W. 

DEAR  GUY, — Sir  George  Gascony  asked  me  to-day  if  I  knew 
of  some  one  who  would  suit  him  as  private  secretary.  He's 
going  out  to  Persia  next  month.  I  told  him  about  you.  Come 
up  to  town  and  meet  him.  He's  dining  here  on  Thursday.  I'm 
certain  you  can  have  the  job. 

Yours  ever, 

COMERAGH. 
310 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

At  first  the  letter  only  presented  itself  to  his  imagina- 
tion as  an  easy  way  of  punishing  Pauline's  hysteria.  It 
seemed  to  him  the  very  weapon  that  was  wanted  to  "give 
her  a  lesson,"  and  after  dinner  he  went  across  to  the 
Rectory  and  announced  his  news  in  front  of  everybody, 
asking  everybody  if  they  did  not  think  he  ought  to  go, 
and  talking  enthusiastically  of  Oriental  adventure  until 
quite  late.  He  sternly  refused  to  allow  himself  a  moment 
alone  with  Pauline  in  which  to  talk  over  the  plan;  and, 
even  when  they  were  left  alone  together  in  the  hall,  he 
kissed  her  good  night  hurriedly  and  silently  and  rather 
guiltily. 

When  Guy  was  back  at  home  and  thought  about  his 
behavior,  he  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  committed  him- 
self to  Persia  too  finally.  The  prospect,  except  so  far  as 
it  would  affect  Pauline,  had  not  really  sunk  into  his  mind 
yet,  but  now  as  he  read  the  letter  over  he  began  to  think 
that  he  really  would  like  to  go.  It  might  mean  a  separa- 
tion of  two  years,  but  it  would  reconcile  him  to  his  father, 
and  it  would  assure  his  marriage  at  the  end  of  the  time. 
Persia  might  easily  be  almost  as  interesting  as  it  sounded, 
and  how  remote  from  debts  looked  Bagdad.  If  last  year 
he  had  been  able  practically  to  settle  to  be  a  school- 
master, how  much  more  easily  could  this  resolution  be 
taken.  Dreamily  he  let  his  imagination  play  round  the 
notion  of  Persia,  dreamily  and  rather  pleasantly  it  would 
solve  so  many  difficulties,  and  it  held  the  promise  of  so 
much  active  romance. 

Next  morning  Mrs.  Grey  sent  round  to  ask  if  Guy 
would  come  to  lunch  early  enough  to  have  a  talk  with 
her  first. 

"Yes  .  .  .  charming  ...  I  really  wanted  us  to  have  a 
little  talk  together,"  she  said  in  nervous  welcome  as  she 
led  the  way  to  her  own  sitting-room,  that  with  its  red 
lacquer  and  its  screen  painted  with  birds-of-paradise  hid 
itself  away  in  a  corner  of  the  house.  Ordinarily  Guy 
would  have  accepted  it  as  a  sign  of  the  highest  favor  to 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

be  brought  to  her  small  room,  but  this  morning  it  seemed 
to  imprison  him. 

"Yes  .  .  .  charming  ...  a  little  talk,"  said  Mrs.  Grey; 
and  Guy,  while  he  waited  for  her  to  begin,  watched  the 
mandarins  that  moved  in  absurd  reduplications  all  about 
her  arm-chair's  faded  green  pattern. 

"Of  course  it  was  rather  a  surprise  to  us  all  last  night 
.  .  .  yes  ...  I  expect  it  was  a  surprise  to  you.  And  you 
really  think  you  ought  to  go?" 

"I'm  getting  rather  discouraged  about  poetry,"  Guy 
confessed.  "I'm  beginning  to  think  that  what  I've 
written  isn't  much  good,  and  that  if  I  am  ever  going  to 
write  anything  worth  while  it  will  be  because  I've  learned 
to  be  less  self-conscious  about  it.  If  I  went  to  Persia  with 
Sir  George  Gascony  I  should  probably  be  kept  fairly  busy, 
and  if  there  was  any  poetry  left  in  me  after  that,  well,  it 
might  be  good  stuff." 

"But  you've  not  seen  yet  what  people  think  of  what 
you  have  written  ...  no  ...  you  see,  the  poems  haven't 
been  published  yet,  which  is  very  vexing  .  .  .  and  so  I 
thought  ...  I  mean  the  Rector  thought  that  if  there  was 
any  difficulty  he  would  like  to  help  you  to  publish  them 
.  .  .  yes  .  .  .  rather  than  go  away  to  Persia  .  .  .  you  know 
.  .  .  yes  .  .  .  poor  little  Pauline  was  crying  nearly  all  night, 
and  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  go  away  suddenly  like 
this  ...  no  ...  and  we  couldn't  find  an  atlas  anywhere!" 

"You  think  I  ought  not  to  go?"  said  Guy,  and  he 
realized  as  he  spoke  that  he  was  disappointed. 

"I  do  think  that  after  all  these  months  of  hoping  for 
your  poems  to  be  a  success  you  ought  at  least  to  try 
them  first,  and  then  afterwards  we  can  talk  about  Persia. 
I'm  afraid  you  think  I've  been  too  strict  about  Pauline 
.  .  .  perhaps  I  have  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  and  so  I  think  that  now 
Spring  is  here  you  can  go  out  every  day  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  charm- 
ing .  .  .  now  that  the  weather  is  getting  better.  .  .  ." 

But  now  every  day,  thought  Guy,  bitterly,  there  would 
be  recriminations  between  them. 

312 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

"Of  course  if  you  think  I  ought  not  to  go,  I  won't,"  he 
said.  "I'll  write  to  Comeragh  and  refuse." 

"I'm  sure  you're  glad,  aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  rather." 

"We  all  understood  why  you  thought  you  ought  to 
go,  and  now  I've  another  plan  .  .  ,  yes  .  .  .  charming  .  .  . 
I'm  going  to  send  Pauline  away  for  a  month  .  .  .  with 
Miss  Verney  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  charming,  charming  plan  .  .  . 
and  you  must  make  arrangements  at  once  about  your 
poems  .  .  .  and  then  perhaps  you  could  give  them  to 
Pauline  for  her  birthday.  .  .  ." 

"But  I  don't  think  the  Rector  ought  to  pay  for  them," 
Guy  objected. 

"The  Rector  wants  to  pay  for  them.  But,  of  course,  he 
won't  say  anything  about  it,  and  you  will  have  to  make 
the  arrangements  yourself." 

"You're  all  so  good  to  me,  and  I  feel  such  a  fraud,'* 
said  Guy. 

"You'd  better  make  arrangements  with  the  man  you 
sent  them  to  first  .  .  .  and  Pauline  needn't  know  anything 
about  it  ...  and  I  sha'n't  say  I've  persuaded  you  not  to 
go  to  China  ...  or  else  she  will  be  worried  .  .  .  she's  looking 
rather  pale.  ...  I  think  two  or  three  weeks  by  the  seaside 
.  .  .  Lyme  Regis  perhaps  or  Cromer  .  .  .  Lyme  Regis, 
I  think,  because  the  trains  to  Folkstone  have  been  torn 
out  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  charming,  charming." 

After  lunch  Guy  told  Pauline  in  the  garden  that  he  had 
decided  not  to  accept  the  post  he  had  been  offered,  and 
she  was  so  obviously  overjoyed  at  his  decision  that  he  no 
longer  had  the  heart  to  feel  the  slightest  disappointment. 

"Guy,  I've  been  so  stupid,"  she  told  him.  "I've  de- 
pressed you  without  any  reason,  but  I  will  come  back 
from  Scarborough  quite  well." 

Guy  began  to  laugh. 

"Oh,  why  are  you  laughing?" 

"Dearest,  because  I  cannot  make  out  where  you  really 
are  going." 

21  5J3 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Scarborough,  because  Miss  Verney  has  chosen  Scar- 
borough." 

They  talked  for  a  while  of  the  letters  that  each  would 
write  to  the  other,  and  of  what  a  Summer  should  follow 
that  short  parting,  when  every  day  they  would  be  to- 
gether and  when  perhaps  even  such  days  as  those  at 
Ladingford  might  come  again. 

"And  you  won't  worry  about  anything  all  this  time 
you're  away?"  Guy  asked. 

"I  won't,  indeed  I  won't." 

Guy  went  home  to  find  a  telegram  from  Comeragh  say- 
ing that  Sir  George  Gascony  had  got  appendicitis  and 
would  not  be  going  to  Persia  for  a  month  or  two  at  least. 
Yet  he  did  not  mention  this  telegram  at  the  Rectory  when 
next  day  he  came  to  say  good-by  to  Pauline,  because  he 
was  anxious  to  preserve  the  idea  of  his  having  vainly 
attempted  to  do  something,  and  when  he  sat  alone  in  his 
orchard  the  same  afternoon,  he  had  an  emotion  of  some- 
thing very  near  to  relief  that  for  a  while  there  would  be 
no  more  heart-searchings  and  stress,  no  more  misgivings 
and  reproaches  and  despairs.  He  was  perfectly  happy, 
sitting  by  himself  in  the  orchard  and  staring  at  the  black- 
thorn by  the  margin  of  the  stream. 


APRIL 

MISS  VERNEY  was  so  droll  at  Scarborough  and  en- 
joyed herself  so  much,  that  Pauline  in  her  pleasure 
at  the  success  of  what  the  old  maid  called  their  "jaunt" 
really  was  able  to  put  aside  for  the  present  her  own  per- 
plexities. The  sands  were  empty  at  this  season,  and  the 
Spa  unpopulous  except  for  a  few  residents.  The  wind 
blew  inland  from  a  sparkling  sea,  while  Miss  Verney,  with 
bonnet  all  awry,  sitting  in  a  draughty  shelter,  declared 
that  somehow  like  this  she  pictured  the  Riviera;  and  when 
the  weather  was  too  bad  even  for  Miss  Verney's  azure 
dreams,  Pauline  and  she  sat  cozily  among  the  tropic  shells 
and  Berlin  wool  of  their  lodgings.  Long  letters  used  to 
come  every  day  from  Guy,  and  long  letters  had  to  be 
written  by  Pauline  to  him;  while  perpetually  Miss  Verney 
tinkled  on  with  marine  tales  that,  if  no  doubt  nautically 
inaccurate,  had  nevertheless  a  fine  flavor  of  salt  water. 

"I  remember  I  was  sitting  in  the  parlor  window  at 
Southsea  when  a  regiment  ...  I  remember  a  captain  "in 
the  Royal  Marines  ...  I  remember  how  anxious  my 
father  was  that  I  should  have  been  a  boy." 

"Oh,  dear  Miss  Verney,  you  can't  remember  that." 
"Oh  yes,  he  invariably  spoke  of  me  as  the  Midshipman, 
I  remember.  I  would  then  have  been  about  eight  years 
of  age  .  .  .  Pray  give  my  very  kind  regards  to  Mr.  Guy 
and  say  how  well  we  are  both  looking,  and  what  a  bene- 
fit this  fine  air  is,  to  be  sure,  and  don't  forget  our  little 
expedition  to  the  theater.  You  must  tell  Mr.  Guy  the 
story  of  the  piece.  He  will  certainly  enjoy  hearing  about 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

that  very  nice-mannered  convict  who.  .  .  .    Ah  dear!  how 
my  poor  father  used  to  revel  in  the  play." 

Miss  Verney's  conversation  scarcely  ever  stopped,  and 
while  Pauline  was  writing  letters  it  was  always  particular- 
ly brisk,  but  she  used  to  enjoy  the  accompaniment  as  she 
would  have  enjoyed  the  twittering  of  a  bird.  It  seemed 
to  inspire  her  letters  with  the  equable  gaiety  that  Guy 
was  so  glad  to  think  was  coming  back  to  her.  His  own 
letters  were  invariably  cheerful,  and  Pauline  began  to 
count  the  days  to  the  time  when  she  would  see  him  again. 
Easter  had  gone  by,  and  the  weather  was  so  steadily  fine 
that  it  was  a  pity  not  to  be  together.  He  wrote  of  prim- 
roses awaiting  her  footsteps  in  the  forest,  of  blue  dog-violets 
and  cowslips  in  the  hollows  of  Wychford  down,  of  all  the 
birds  that  were  now  arrived  in  England,  of  the  cuckoo's 
first  call,  and  of  the  first  swallow  seen. 

Come  back  soon,  my  own,  my  sweet  [he  wrote].  Come  back 
and  let  this  Winter  be  all  forgotten.  I  climbed  up  to  the  top 
of  the  church  tower  to-day,  and  oh,  the  tulips  in  your  garden, 
and  oh,  the  emptiness  of  that  garden  notwithstanding!  Come 
back,  my  Pauline,  for  you'll  see  the  iris  buds  in  the  paddock  and 
you've  no  idea  of  the  way  in  which  that  river  of  ours  sparkles 
on  these  April  mornings.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  remote 
this  Winter  already  has  grown.  It  has  crept  out  of  memory 
like  a  dejected  nightmare  at  breakfast.  You  are  never  to  think 
again  about  the  stupid  things  I've  said  about  religion:  think 
only,  my  dearest,  that  I  hope  always  for  your  faith.  It  would 
be  dishonest  of  me  to  say  that  I  believe  now  exactly  as  you  be- 
lieve, but  I  want  to  believe  like  that.  Perhaps  I'm  illogical  in 
writing  this:  perhaps  all  the  time  I  do  believe.  Forget  too 
what  I  said  about  Confession.  I  would  almost  go  myself  to 
prove  my  penitence  (to  you!),  but  I  just  can't  bring  myself 
to  do  that,  because  for  me  it  really  would  be  useless  and  would 
turn  me  against  everything  you  count  as  holy.  Forget  all  that 
has  cast  a  shadow  on  our  love.  Count  it  all  as  my  heedlessness 
and  be  confident  that  I  alone  was  to  blame.  I  would  write 
more,  but  letters  are  such  impossible  things  for  intimacy.  Some 
people  can  pour  out  their  souls  on  paper:  I  can't.  That's 

316 


ANOTHER   SPRING 

really  what  my  poems  suffer  from.  I  have  been  working  at 
them  again  since  you  were  away,  and  they  have  a  kind  of  cold- 
ness, a  sort  of  awkward  youthful  reserve.  Perhaps  that's  better 
than  youthful  exuberance,  and  yet  I  don't  know.  One  can 
prune  the  too  prodigal  growth,  but  one  can't  always  be  sure  of 
having  the  prodigality  when  one  has  the  maturity.  The  meta- 
phors seem  to  be  getting  rather  tied  up,  and  you  must  be  bored 
by  now  with  my  chattering  criticism. 

Your  mother  came  to  tea  yesterday  and  brought  Monica. 
Margaret  is  rather  in  seclusion  at  present  on  account  of  Rich- 
ard's arrival,  I  fancy.  She's  obviously  dreading  other  people's 
notice.  It  is  a  rather  self-conscious  business,  this  waiting  for 
the  arrival  of  some  one  whom  everybody  expects  is  going  to 
play  such  an  important  part  in  her  life.  If  we  were  separated 
now  for  two  years,  it  would  be  different;  but  I  can  see  that 
Margaret  is  dreadfully  afraid  that  now,  having  at  last  made  up 
her  mind  to  marry  Richard,  she  may  not  care  for  him  as  much 
as  she  did.  He  must  be  a  fine  fellow.  I'm  looking  forward 
tremendously  to  his  coming.  Monica  was  perfectly  delightful 
yesterday,  and  grew  quite  excited  in  her  nunlike  way  over  the 
ultimate  decoration  of  Flashers  Mead.  Dear  me,  what  taste 
you  all  have  got,  and  what  a  very  great  deal  you've  taught  me! 
You  must  most  of  all  forget  that  I  ever  said  a  word  against  your 
sisters.  They  have  really  equipped  me  in  a  way  with  a  point 
of  view  towards  art.  I  tried  to  tell  Monica  so  yesterday  after- 
noon. In  fact,  we  got  on  very  well  together.  In  a  way,  you 
know,  she  almost  appreciates  you  more  than  Margaret  does. 
You  represent  her  hope,  her  ideal  of  the  world.  Worldly  one, 
I  must  say  good  night.  Tell  Miss  Verney  with  my  love  that  all 
her  cats  send  their  best  respects  and  compliments  and  that 
Bellerophon  particularly  requests  that  his  mistress  will  bring 
back  whatever  fish  is  in  season  at  Scarborough.  Oh,  the  fun- 
niest thing  I've  forgotten  to  tell  you!  Miss  Peasey  was  chased 
by  some  bullocks  across  the  big  field  behind  the  orchard!  She 
was  too  priceless  about  it  when  she  got  home. 

Pauline  began  to  think  it  was  impossible  for  her  ever  to 
have  had  the  least  worry  in  the  course  of  her  engage- 
ment. This  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  parted  from 
Guy  for  more  than  a  week  during  the  whole  of  a  year, 

317 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

and  there  was  something  very  reassuring  in  such  an  op- 
portunity to  regard  him  like  this  so  disinterestedly,  to 
find  that  the  separation  was  having  the  traditional  effect 
and  to  be  positive  that  she  was  going  to  meet  him  again 
at  the  end  of  April  more  in  love  than  ever.  Nevertheless, 
she  was  always  aware  of  being  grateful  for  the  repose  from 
problems,  and  she  did  once  or  twice  play  with  the  idea 
of  having  perhaps  made  a  mistake  in  objecting  to  his 
going  abroad.  It  was  on  occasions  of  doubt  like  this 
that  Pauline  would  try  to  impress  Miss  Verney  with 
what  existence  had  already  meant  to  her. 

"I'm  feeling  so  old,  Miss  Verney." 

"Old,  my  dear?  Oh,  that  cannot  be  true,"  exclaimed 
her  friend. 

"Falling  very  much  in  love  does  make  one  feel  old," 
Pauline  declared. 

"Let  me  see,"  Miss  Verney  went  on,  "let  me  try  to 
remember  how  I  felt.  My  impression  is  now  that  when 
I  was  in  love  I  felt  much  younger  than  I  do  at  present, 
but  perhaps  that  is  natural,  for  it  is  very  nearly  thirty 
years  ago  since  William  and  I  parted." 

"Is  he  still  alive?" 

"Oh  yes,  he  is  still  alive,  but  I  have  never  seen  him 
and  he  must  be  wonderfully  altered.  Sometimes  I  think 
of  all  the  days  that  have  gone  by  since  we  parted.  It 
seems  so  strange  to  think  of  our  lives  being  able  to  go 
on,  when  once  it  seemed  to  both  of  us  that  life  could  not 
go  on  at  all  if  we  were  not  together.  It  seems  so  strange 
to  think  of  him  eating  his  lunch  somewhere  at  the  same 
time  that  somewhere  else  I  am  eating  my  lunch.  Who 
knows  if  he  ever  thinks  of  me,  who  knows  indeed  ?" 

"If  anything  happened  to  prevent  our  marriage,"  be- 
gan Pauline,  thoughtfully,  and  then  was  silent. 

Miss  Verney  opened  wide  her  pale-blue  eyes. 

"And  what  could  happen?"  she  asked,  grandly. 

"I've  no  business  to  imagine  such  a  thing,  have  I?" 

"None  whatever,"  said  Miss  Verney,  decidedly. 
318 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

But  had  Miss  Verney's  love-affair  been  complicated  by 
anything  more  than  merely  natural  difficulties?  Guy's 
debts  and  unsuccess  were  nothing  in  comparison  with 
other  elements  of  disaccord  .  .  .  and  then  Pauline  pulled 
herself  up  from  brooding  and  resolutely  forced  her  mind 
to  contemplate  a  happy  Summer.  Had  she  not  just 
now  been  congratulating  herself  upon  the  disappearance 
of  all  worries  in  this  sea  air? 

The  time  at  Scarborough  drew  to  a  close,  and  about  a 
week  before  her  birthday  came  the  news  of  Richard's 
arrival  from  India.  She  and  Miss  Verney  packed  up 
and  were  home  in  Wychford  two  days  before  they  were 
expected. 

"Richard,  how  lovely  to  see  you  again!"  Pauline  cried. 
"And,  oh,  Richard,  I'm  sure  you've  grown.  Don't  you 
think  he  has  grown?"  she  demanded  of  everybody. 
"Richard,  how  clever  of  you  to  grow  when  you're  twenty- 
seven." 

It  was  really  like  old  times  to  go  babbling  on  like  this, 
while  Richard  sat  and  smiled  encouragingly  and  spoke 
never  a  word. 

"Coming  for  a  stroll?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  but  I  ought  to  see  Guy  first,"  she  said.  "Rich- 
ard, I  hope  you  like  Guy." 

He  nodded. 

"Do  you  think  he  looks  like  a  poet?" 

"Never  saw  a  poet  before,"  said  Richard. 

"Oh,  but  like  your  idea  of  a  poet?" 

"Never  thought  much  about  poets,"  said  Richard. 
"So  you  aren't  coming  for  a  stroll?" 

"I  will  to-morrow,  but  I  must  spend  the  sunset  with 
Guy." 

Guy  was  waiting  for  her  by  the  paddock,  and  they 
floated  down-stream  out  of  reach  of  people.  In  their 
own  peninsula  they  kissed  away  the  absence  of  twenty- 
two  days. 

"You  look  much  better,"  said  Guy,  critically. 

319 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"I'm  perfectly  well." 

"And  happy?" 

She  answered  him  with  her  eyes. 

"Why,  Pauline,  I  believe  you're  quite  shy  of  me!" 

She  blushed. 

"I  really  am  a  little,  you  know,"  she  whispered.  "Did 
you  like  Richard?  Oh,  Guy,  I  hope  you  did." 

"Of  course  I  did." 

"And,  Guy,  you  don't  mind  if  I  go  for  a  walk  with  him 
to-morrow  morning?  You  see,  I  know  he's  longing  to 
hear  about  Margaret  and  himself." 

"But  you'll  come  out  with  me  in  the  afternoon?" 

"Why,  of  course." 

"Then  Richard  may  have  the  morning,"  said  Guy. 
"And  I  hope  you'll  arrange  everything  between  him  and 
Margaret  so  successfully  that  he  won't  steal  any  more 
hours  from  me." 

When  Pauline  had  left  Guy  that  evening  she  thought 
how  strangely  it  had  been  like  meeting  him  for  the  first 
time  all  over  again.  Or  rather  it  was  as  if  they  had 
walked  a  long  way  down  the  wrong  road  and  were  now 
beginning  to  walk  somewhat  tentatively  along  what  she 
hoped  was  surely  the  right  road  at  last.  Her  duty  was 
above  all  to  help  Guy  with  the  material  burdens;  she 
must  never  again  let  him  think  that  his  debts  or  his  pros- 
pects had  any  power  to  worry  her.  Merely  most  tact- 
fully must  she  try  to  keep  him  from  extravagance,  and, 
oh  dear,  how  she  hoped  that  he  had  not  bought  her  an 
expensive  birthday  present.  It  was  too  late  to  say  any- 
thing about  it  now,  but  if  Guy  had  been  wisely  economical 
how  happy  she  would  be.  How  she  hoped,  too,  that 
Richard  had  not  brought  home  from  India  a  present  that 
would  annoy  Margaret.  Really,  it  was  a  most  oppressive 
business,  this  week  before  her  coming  of  age,  for  between 
Guy's  extravagance  and  Richard's  .  .  .  well,  it  was  really 
not  so  much  bad  taste  as  Indian  taste.  She  would  love 
anything  he  gave  her,  of  course,  but  perhaps  he  would 

320 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

consult  beforehand  with  Margaret.  Dear  Richard,  he 
was  so  sweet  and  touching,  and  if  only  he  had  not  brought 
her  something  very  elaborately  carved.  She  met  him  next 
morning  half-way  to  Fairfield,  and  two  years  were  ob- 
literated as  she  kept  pace  with  his  long  stride  when  they 
turned  aside  from  the  highroad  and  tramped  upward  over 
the  grassy  wold. 

"Richard,  isn't  it  very  hot  in  India?" 

He  nodded. 

"And  didn't  you  ever  get  used  to  walking  a  bit  more 
slowly  in  India?" 

He  laughed. 

"You  lazy  little  thing.  I  thought  you  and  Aunt  Ver- 
ney  had  been  in  training  at  Scarborough?  Come  on, 
let's  sit  down  then." 

They  sat  down,  and  Richard  drew  with  his  stick  in  the 
close  turf. 

"Is  that  your  bridge?"  Pauline  asked,  with  all  the 
interest  she  could  put  into  her  voice. 

He  laughed  for  a  long  time. 

"Pauline,  you  villain,  it's  the  beginning  of  Margaret's 
face!" 

She  clapped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Richard,  aren't  I  a  villain?  But,  you  know,  it's 
not  very  frightfully  like  anything,  is  it?" 

"Pauline,"  he  said,  suddenly,  in  that  snarp  voice  in 
which  two  years  ago  he  had  intrusted  his  interests  to  her 
before  he  went  away — "Pauline,  is  Margaret  going  to 
marry  me?" 

"Why,  of  course  she  is,  Richard!" 

"Has  she  spoken  to  you  about  me?" 

"But  you  know  she  never  speaks  about  her  own  affairs 
and  that  she  can't  bear  anybody  else  to  speak  of  them 
to  her." 

"Then  how  do  you  know?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  perhaps  because  I'm  so  much  in  love  with 
Guy,"  Pauline  whispered. 

321 


FLASHERS   MEAD 

"I  don't  see  how  that  quite  works.  I'm  a  very  dull 
sort  of  chap  after  that  Guy  of  yours." 

"But  you're  not  at  all,"  Pauline  declared.  "And  if 
you  take  my  advice  you  won't  think  you're  dull.  You'll 
make  Margaret  marry  you.  Really,  I'm  sure  that  what 
she  would  like  best  is  to  be  made  to  do  something.  You 
see,  she's  a  darling,  but  she  is  just  a  very  tiny  little  bit 
spoiled.  You  mustn't  be  so  patient  with  her.  But,  Rich- 
ard dear,  I  know  she  loves  you,  because  she  practically 
told  Guy  that  she  did." 

"Guy?"  he  echoed,  looking  rather  indignant. 

"Well,  you  must  understand  how  sweet  Margaret  was 
to  him  about  me.  She  was  so  sympathetic,  and  really 
she  practically  brought  about  our  engagement.  Oh,  I  do 
love  her  so,  Richard,  and  I  do  want  her  to  be  happy,  and 
I  do  know  so  dreadfully  well  that  you  are  the  very  person 
to  make  her  happy." 

"Pauline,  you  are  a  pink  brick,"  he  avowed. 

And  scarcely  another  word  did  he  say  for  the  rest  of 
their  walk. 

Pauline  went  to  Margaret's  room  that  night  and,  after 
fidgeting  all  the  while  her  sister  was  undressing,  suddenly 
plunged  down  beside  her  bed  and  caught  hold  of  her  hand. 

"Margaret,  you're  not  to  snub  me,  because  I  abso- 
lutely must  speak.  I  must  beg  you  not  to  keep  Richard 
waiting  any  longer.  Do,  my  darling,  darling  Margaret, 
do  be  kind  to  him  and  not  so  cold.  He  simply  adores 
you,  and  .  ,  .  Why,  Margaret,  you're  crying!  .  .  .  Oh,  let 
me  kiss  you,  my  Margaret,  because  you  were  so  wonderful 
about  Guy,  and  I've  been  a  beast  to  you  and  you  must, 
you  must  be  happy." 

"If  I  could  only  love  him  as  you  love  Guy,"  Margaret 
sighed  between  her  tears. 

"You  do  really  ...  at  least  perhaps  not  quite  as  much. 
Oh,  Margaret,  don't  be  angry  with  me  if  I  whisper  some- 
thing to  you;  think  how  much  you  would  love  him  if  you 
and  he  had  .  .  .  Margaret,  you  know  what  I  mean," 

322 


ANOTHER   SPRING 

Pauline  blew  out  the  candle  and  rushed  from  the  dark 
room;  and  lying  awake  in  her  own  bed,  she  fancied  among 
the  flowers  of  the  Rectory  such  fairy  children  for  Mar- 
garet and  herself,  such  fairy  children  dancing  by  the 
margin  of  the  river. 


MAY 

ON  the  morning  before  Pauline's  birthday  Guy  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Michael  Fane  announcing 
abruptly  his  engagement  and  adding  that  on  account  of 
worldly  opposition  he  had  been  persuaded  into  a  post- 
ponement of  his  marriage  for  two  months.  Guy  was 
rather  ironically  amused  by  the  serious  manner  in  which 
Michael  took  so  brief  a  delay,  and  he  could  not  help 
thinking  how  unreasonably  impatient  of  trifles  people 
with  ample  private  means  often  showed  themselves. 
Michael  wrote  that  he  would  like  to  spend  some  of  his 
probation  at  Flashers  Mead,  and  alluded  to  the  "luck" 
of  his  friend  in  being  so  near  his  Pauline. 

Guy  wrote  a  letter  of  congratulation,  and  then  he  put 
Michael's  news  out  of  his  mind  in  order  to  examine  the 
two  complete  sets  of  the  proofs  on  his  poems  which  had 
also  arrived  that  morning.  He  was  engaged  in  the  task  of 
making  a  rather  clumsy  binding  for  them  out  of  a  piece 
of  stained  vellum  when  Richard  Ford  came  round  to 
Plashers  Mead.  Guy  welcomed  him  gladly,  for  besides 
the  personal  attraction  he  felt  towards  this  lean  and  si- 
lent engineer,  he  perceived  in  the  likelihood  of  Richard's 
speedy  marriage  an  earnest  of  his  own.  Somehow  that 
marriage  was  going  to  break  the  spell  of  inactivity  to 
which  at  the  Rectory  all  seemed  to  be  subject,  and  from 
which  Guy  was  determined  to  keep  Richard  free,  even  if 
it  were  necessary  to  shake  him  as  continuously  as  tired 
wanderers  in  the  snow  are  shaken  out  of  a  dangerous 
sleep. 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

"I  came  round  to  consult  with  you  about  my  present  to 
Pauline  to-morrow,"  said  Richard,  very  solemnly.  "I've 
brought  round  one  or  two  little  things,  so  that  you  could 
give  me  your  advice." 

"Why,  of  course  I  will,"  said  Guy. 

"They're  down-stairs  in  the  hall.  I  had  some  difficulty 
in  explaining  to  your  housekeeper  that  I  wasn't  a  peddler." 

In  the  hall  was  stacked  a  pile  completely  representative 
of  the  bazar:  half  a  dozen  shawls,  the  model  of  a  tem- 
ple, a  carved  table,  some  inlaid  stools,  every  sort  of 
typical  Oriental  gewgaw;  in  fact,  an  agglomeration  that 
seemed  to  invite  the  smell  of  cheap  incense  for  its  effective 
display. 

"Godbold  drove  them  over,"  Richard  explained,  as  he 
saw  Guy's  astonishment.  "Now  look  here,  what's  the 
best  present  for  Pauline?  You  see,  I'm  not  at  all  an 
artistic  sort  of  chap,  and  I  don't  want  to  hoick  forward 
something  that's  going  to  be  more  of  a  nuisance  than  any- 
thing else." 

"It's  really  awfully  difficult  to  choose,"  said  Guy,  rather 
ambiguously. 

Then  he  discovered  a  simple  ivory  paper-knife  which 
he  declared  was  just  the  thing,  having  the  happy  thought 
that  he  would  not  cut  the  set  of  proofs  he  was  binding 
for  Pauline,  so  that  to-morrow  Richard  could  have  the 
pleasure  of  beholding  his  gift  put  to  immediate  use. 

"You've  chosen  the  smallest  thing  of  the  lot,"  said  the 
disappointed  donor.  "You  don't  think  a  shawl  as  well?" 
he  asked,  holding  up  yards  of  gaudy  material. 

"Well,  candidly,  I  think  Pauline's  too  fair  for  that  color 
scheme,  don't  you?" 

"All  right,  the  paper-knife.  You  don't  mind  if  I  leave 
these  things  here  till  Godbold  can  fetch  them  away,  and 
...  er  ...  I  wish  you'd  choose  something  for  yourself. 
I've  always  taken  a  kind  of  interest  in  this  house,  don't 
you  know,  and  I've  often  thought  about  it  in  India." 

"I'd  like  a  gong,"  said  Guy  at  once,  and  Richard  was 
325 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

obviously  gratified  by  his  quick  choice,  and  still  further 
gratified  when  Guy  suggested  they  should  sound  it  im- 
mediately outside  the  kitchen  door.  Solemnly  Richard 
held  it  up  in  the  passage,  while  Guy  crashed  forth  a 
glorious  clamor,  at  the  summons  of  which  Miss  Peasey 
came  rushing  out. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  gasped.  "I  thought  that  dog  Bob 
had  jumped  through  the  window." 

"This  is  a  present  for  us  from  India,"  Guy  shouted. 

"Oh,  that's  extremely  handsome,  isn't  it?  Well  now, 
I  shall  expect  you  to  be  punctual  in  future  for  your  meals. 
Dear  me,  yes,  quite  a  variety,  I'm  sure,  after  that  measly 
bell." 

The  gong  was  given  a  prominent  position  in  the  bare 
hall,  and  Guy  invited  Richard  up  to  his  own  room.  After 
the  question  of  the  presents  had  been  solved  Richard  was 
shy  and  silent  again,  and  Guy  found  it  very  hard  to  make 
conversation.  Several  times  his  visitor  seemed  on  the 
point  of  getting  something  off  his  mind,  but  when  he  was 
given  an  opportunity  for  speech  he  never  accepted  it. 
Desperate  for  a  topic,  Guy  showed  him  the  proofs  of  the 
poems,  and  explained  that  he  was  binding  them  roughly 
as  his  present  to  Pauline  to-morrow. 

"That's  something  I  can't  understand,"  said  Richard, 
intensely.  "Writing!  It  beats  me!" 

"Bridges  would  beat  me,"  said  Guy. 

Richard  looked  quite  cheerful  at  this  notion  and  under 
the  influence  of  the  encouragement  he  had  received  seemed 
at  last  on  the  point  of  getting  out  what  he  wanted  to  say, 
but  he  could  manage  nothing  more  confidential  than  a  tug 
at  his  bristled  fair  mustache. 

"When  are  you  and  Margaret  going  to  be  married?" 
Guy  asked,  abruptly,  for,  of  course,  he  had  guessed  that 
it  was  Margaret's  name  which  was  continually  on  the 
tip  of  his  tongue. 

"By  Jove!  there  you  are!  I'm  rather  stumped,"  said 
Richard,  gloomily.  "You  see,  the  thing  is  ...  well ...  I 

326 


ANOTHER   SPRING 

suppose  you  know  that  when  I  started  off  to  India  last 
June  year,  Margaret  and  I  were  sort  of  engaged  ...  at 
least  I  was  certainly  engaged  to  her,  only  she  hadn't  abso- 
lutely made  up  her  mind  about  me  .  .  .  and,  of  course, 
that's  just  what  you'd  expect  would  happen  to  a  chap 
like  me  .  .  .  dash  it  all !  Hazlewood,  I'm  afraid  to  ask 
her  again!" 

"I  don't  think  you  need  be,"  said  Guy.  "Of  course  we 
haven't  discussed  you,  except  very  indirectly,"  he  hastily 
added,  "but  I'm  positive  that  Margaret  is  only  waiting 
for  you  to  ask  her  to  marry  her  on  some  definite  day; 
on  some  definite  day,  Ford,  that's  the  great  thing  to 
remember." 

"You  mean  I  ought  to  say,  'Margaret,  will  you  marry 
me  on  the  twelfth  of  August,  or  the  first  of  September?' 
That's  your  notion,  is  it?" 

Guy  nodded. 

"By  gad!   I'll  ask  her  to-day,"  said  Richard. 

"And  you'll  be  engaged  to-morrow,"  Guy  prophesied. 

"When  are  you  and  Pauline  going  to  be  married?" 

Guy  looked  up  quickly  to  see  if  the  solid  Richard  were 
laughing  at  him,  but  there  was  nothing  in  those  steel-blue 
eyes  except  the  most  benevolent  inquiry. 

"That's  the  question,"  said  Guy.  "Writing  is  not 
quite  such  a  certainty  as  bridge-building." 

"You  mean  there's  the  difficulty  of  money?  By  Jove! 
that's  bad  luck,  isn't  it?  Still,  you  know,  I  expect  that 
having  the  good  fortune  to  have  Pauline  in  love  with 
you.  .  .  .  Well,  I  expect,  you've  got  to  expect  a  bit  of  diffi- 
culty somewhere,  you  know.  You  know,  Pauline  was  .  .  ." 
he  stopped  and  blinked  at  the  window. 

"Pauline's  awfully  fond  of  you,"  Guy  said,  encourag- 
ingly. 

"Hazlewood,  that  kid's  been  .  .  .  Well,  I  can't  express 
myself,  you  know,  but  I'd  ...  Well,  I  really  can't  talk 
about  her." 

"I  understand,  though,"  said  Guy.  "Look  here,  you'll 

327 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

stay  and  have  lunch  with  me,  and  then  we  can  go  across 
to  the  Rectory  afterwards." 

Emotional  subjects  were  tacitly  put  on  one  side  to  talk 
of  the  birds  and  butterflies  that  one  might  expect  to  find 
round  Wychford,  of  Miss  Verney  and  Godbold  and  other 
local  characters,  or  of  the  prospects  of  the  cricket  team 
that  year.  After  lunch  Guy  put  the  unbound  set  of  proofs 
in  his  pocket  and,  launching  the  canoe,  they  floated  down 
to  the  Rectory  paddock.  Mrs.  Grey  and  the  girls  were 
all  in  the  garden  picking  purple  tulips,  and  Guy,  taking 
Pauline  aside,  told  her  on  what  momentous  quest  Richard 
was  come,  suggesting  that  he  should  occupy  the  Rector's 
attention,  while  Pauline  lured  away  her  mother  and 
Monica. 

The  Rector  was  sitting  in  the  library,  hard  at  work 
rubbing  the  fluff  from  the  anemone  seeds  with  sand. 

"And  what  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  to  see  the  proofs  of  my  poems," 
said  Guy. 

He  laid  the  duplicates  on  the  dusty  table,  and  tried  to 
thank  his  patron  for  what  he  had  done.  The  Rector 
waved  a  clay  pipe  deprecatingly. 

"You  must  thank  Constance  .  .  .  you  must  thank  my 
wife,  if  you  thank  anybody.  But  if  I  were  you  I  shouldn't 
thank  anybody  till  you  find  out  for  certain  that  she's  done 
you  a  service,"  he  recommended,  with  a  twinkle. 

Guy  laughed. 

"Worrall  doesn't  want  to  publish  until  the  Autumn." 

The  Rector  made  a  face. 

"All  that  time  to  wait  for  the  verdict?" 

"Time  seems  particularly  hostile  to  me,"  Guy  said. 

"You'll  have  to  tweak  his  forelock  pretty  hard." 

"That's  what  I've  come  to  consult  you  about.  Do  you 
think  I  ought  to  go  to  Persia  with  Sir  George  Gascony? 
Mrs.  Grey  thought  I  oughtn't  to  take  so  drastic  a  step 
until  I  had  first  tested  my  poems  in  public.  But  I've 
been  reading  them  through,  and  they  don't  somehow  look 

328 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

quite  as  important  in  print  as  they  did  in  manuscript. 
I  can't  help  feeling  that  I  ought  to  have  a  regular  occupa- 
tion. What  do  you  really  advise  me  to  do,  Mr.  Grey?" 

The  Rector  held  up  his  arms  in  mock  dismay. 

"Gracious  goodness  me,  don't  implicate  a  poor  country 
parson  in  such  affairs!  I  can  give  you  advice  about  flowers 
and  I  can  pretend  to  give  you  advice  about  your  soul,  but 
about  the  world,  no,  no." 

"I  think  perhaps  I'll  get  some  journalistic  work  in 
town,"  Guy  suggested. 

"Persia  or  journalism!"  commented  the  Rector. 
"Well,  well,  they're  both  famous  for  fairy  tales.  I  rec- 
ommend journalism  as  being  nearer  at  hand." 

"Then  I'll  take  your  advice." 

"Oh,  dear  me,  you  must  not  involve  me  in  such  a  re- 
sponsibility. Now,  if  you  were  a  nice  rational  iris  I  would 
talk  to  you,  but  for  a  talented  young  man  with  his  life 
before  him  I  shouldn't  even  be  a  good  quack.  Come 
along,  let's  go  out  and  look  at  the  tulips." 

"You  will  glance  through  my  poems?"  Guy  asked, 
diffidently. 

The  Rector  stood  up  and  put  his  hand  on  the  poet's 
shoulder. 

"Of  course  I  will,  my  dear  boy,  and  you  mustn't  be 
deceived  by  the  manner  of  that  shy  old  boor,  the  Rector 
of  Wychford.  Do  what  you  think  you  ought  to  do,  and 
make  my  youngest  daughter  happy.  We  shall  be  having 
her  birthday  before  we  know  where  we  are." 

"It's  to-morrow!" 

"Is  it  indeed?  May  Day.  Of  course.  I  remember 
last  year  I  managed  to  bloom  Iris  lorteti.  But  this  year, 
no!  That  wet  May  destroyed  Iris  lorteti.  A  delicate 
creature.  Rose  and  brown.  A  delicate,  lovely  creature." 

Guy  and  the  Rector  pored  over  the  tulips  awhile,  where 

in  serried  borders  they  displayed  their  somber  sheen  of 

amaranth  and  amethyst;    then  Guy  strolled  off  to  hear 

what  was  the  news  of  Margaret  and  Richard.     Pauline 

22  329 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

came  flying  to  meet  him  down  one  of  the  long,  straight 
garden  paths. 

"Darling,  they  are  to  be  married  early  in  August,"  she 
cried. 

He  caught  her  to  him  and  kissed  her,  lest  in  the  first 
poignant  realization  of  other  people's  joy  she  might  seem 
to  be  escaping  from  him  utterly. 

Guy  had  a  few  minutes  with  Margaret  before  he  went 
home  that  evening,  and  they  walked  beside  the  tulip 
borders,  she  tall  and  dark  and  self-contained  in  the  fading 
light,  being  strangely  suited  by  association  with  such 
flowers. 

"Dear  Margaret,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  tell  you  how 
tremendously  I  like  Richard.  Now  that  sounds  patroniz- 
ing. But  I'm  speaking  quite  humbly.  These  sort  of 
Englishmen  have  been  celebrated  enough,  perhaps,  and 
lately  there's  been  a  tendency  to  laugh  at  them,  but,  my 
God!  what  is  there  on  earth  like  the  Richards  of  England? 
Margaret,  you  once  very  rightly  reproved  me  for  putting 
Pauline  in  a  silver  frame,  do  let  me  risk  your  anger  and 
beg  you  never  to  put  yourself  in  a  silver  frame  from  which 
to  look  out  at  Richard." 

"You  do  rather  understand  me,  don't  you?"  she  said, 
offering  him  her  hand. 

"Help  Pauline  and  me,"  he  begged. 

"Haven't  I  always  helped  you?" 

"Not  always,  but  you  will  now  that  you  yourself  are 
no  longer  uncertain  about  your  future.  The  moment  you 
find  yourself  perfectly  happy  you'll  be  longing  for  every 
one  else  to  be  the  same." 

"But  how  haven't  I  helped  you?"  she  persisted. 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  explain  in  definite  words.  But 
I  don't  think  my  idea  of  your  attitude  towards  us  could 
have  been  entirely  invented  by  my  fancy." 

"What  attitude?    What  do  you  mean,  Guy?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  My  dear,  if  you  aren't  conscious  of  it,  I'm  certainly 
330 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

not  going  to  attempt  to  put  it  into  words  and  involve 
myself  in  such  a  net." 

"How  tantalizing  you  are!" 

"No,  I'm  not.  If  you  have  the  least  inclination  to 
think  I  may  be  right,  then  you  know  what  I  mean  and 
you  can  do  what  I  ask.  If  you  haven't  the  least  notion 
of  what  I  mean,  then  it  was  all  my  fancy,  and  I'm  cer- 
tainly not  going  to  give  my  baseless  fancies  away." 

"This  is  all  too  cryptic,"  she  murmured. 

"Then  let  it  remain  undeciphered,"  he  said,  smiling; 
and  he  led  the  conversation  more  directly  towards  their 
marriage  and  the  strangeness  of  the  Rectory  without 
Margaret. 

Richard  spent  the  night  at  Flashers  Mead,  and  Guy 
heard  the  halting  account  of  two  years'  uncertainty,  of 
the  bungalow  that  had  been  taken  and  embowered  against 
Margaret's  coming,  and  of  the  way  in  which  his  bridge 
had  spanned  not  merely  the  river,  but  the  very  ocean, 
and  even  time  itself. 

Pauline's  birthday  morning  was  cloudless,  and  Guy, 
though  to  himself  he  was  inclined  to  blame  the  action  as 
weak,  went  to  church  and  knelt  beside  her.  Then  after- 
wards there  was  the  scene  of  breakfast  on  the  lawn  that 
already,  with  only  this  first  repetition,  wore  for  him  an 
immemorial  air,  so  that  he  could  no  longer  imagine  a 
May  Day  that  was  not  thus  inaugurated.  The  presenta- 
tion of  his  poems  in  proof  had  not  a  bit  less  wonderful 
effect  than  he  had  hoped,  for  Pauline  could  never  finish 
turning  over  the  pages  and  loving  the  ludicrously  tumble- 
down binding. 

"Oh,  it's  so  touching!  I  wish  they  could  all  be  bound 
like  this.  And  how  I  adore  Richard's  paper-knife." 

The  four  lovers  disappeared  after  breakfast  to  enjoy 
the  flashing  May  Day,  and  Monica,  left  alone  with  her 
mother,  looked  a  little  sad,  she,  the  only  one  of  those 
three  lovely  daughters  of  the  Rectory  still  undisturbed  by 
the  demands  of  the  invading  world. 

331 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

May  that  year  was  like  the  fabled  Spring  of  poets;  and 
Guy  and  Pauline  were  left  free  to  enjoy  the  passionate  and 
merry  month  as  perhaps  never  before  had  they  enjoyed 
any  season,  not  even  that  dreamed -away  fortnight  at 
Ladingford  last  year.  They  had  ceased  for  a  while  with 
the  engagement  of  Richard  and  Margaret  to  be  the  central 
figures  of  the  Rectory,  whether  for  blame  or  commendation, 
and,  desiring  nothing  better  than  to  be  left  without  inter- 
ference, they  were  lost  in  apple-blossom  to  e very-day  ex- 
istence. Guy,  with  the  prospect  of  his  poems  appearing 
in  the  Autumn,  felt  that  he  was  justified  in  forgetting  re- 
sponsibilities and,  having  weathered  the  financial  crisis 
of  the  March  quarter,  he  had  now  nothing  to  worry  him 
until  Midsummer.  That  was  the  date  he  had  fixed  upon 
in  his  mind  as  suitable  for  making  a  determined  attempt 
upon  London.  He  had  planned  to  shut  up  Flashers  Mead 
and  to  take  a  small  room  in  Chelsea,  whence  he  would 
conquer  in  a  few  months  the  material  obstacles  that  pre- 
vented their  marriage.  The  poems,  now  that  they  were 
in  print,  seemed  a  less  certain  talisman  to  fame;  but  they 
would  serve  their  purpose,  indeed  they  had  served  their 
purpose  already,  for  this  long-secluded  time  would  surely 
counterbalance  the  too  easy  victories  of  journalism.  He 
would  surely  by  now  have  lost  that  spruce  Oxford  clever- 
ness, and  might  fairly  expect  to  earn  his  living  with  dig- 
nity. The  least  success  would  justify  his  getting  mar- 
ried, and  Pauline  would  enjoy  two  years  spent  high  in 
some  London  attic  within  the  sound  of  chirping  sparrows 
and  the  distant  whispers  of  humanity.  They  would  per- 
haps be  able  to  afford  to  fly  for  magic  weeks  to  Flashers 
Mead,  pastoral  interludes  in  that  crowded  life  which  lay 
ahead.  How  everything  had  resolved  itself  latterly,  and 
how  the  gift  of  glorious  May  should  be  accepted  as  the 
intimate  and  dearest  benefaction  to  their  love!  He  and 
Pauline  were  together  from  earliest  morn  to  the  last 
minute  of  these  rich  and  shadowy  eves.  They  wreathed 
their  boat  with  boughs  of  apple-blossom  and  went  farther 

332 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

up  the  river  than  they  had  ever  gone.  The  cuckoo  was 
still  in  tune,  and  still  the  kingcups  gilded  all  that  hollow 
land;  there  was  not  yet  the  lush  growth  of  weeds  and 
reeds  that  indolent  June  would  use  to  delay  their  dreaming 
progress;  and  still  all  the  trees  and  all  the  hedges  danced 
with  that  first  sharp  green  of  Spring,  that  cold  and  care- 
less green  of  Spring. 

Then  when  the  hawthorn  came  into  prodigal  bloom, 
and  all  the  rolling  country  broke  in  endless  waves  of 
blossom,  Pauline  in  her  muslin  dress  seemed  like  an  airy 
joy  sustained  by  all  these  multitudinous  petals,  dancing 
upon  this  flowery  tide,  this  sweet  foam  of  May. 

"My  flower,  my  sweet,  are  you  indeed  mortal?"  he 
whispered. 

The  texture  of  her  sleeve  against  his  was  less  tangible 
than  the  light  breeze  that  puffed  idly  from  the  south  to 
where  they  sat  enraptured  upon  the  damasked  English 
grass.  Apple-blossom  powdered  her  lap  and  starred  her 
light-brown  hair,  and  around  them  like  a  Circean  perfume 
drowning  the  actual  world  hung  the  odorous  thickets  of 
hawthorn. 

The  month  glided  along  until  the  time  of  ragged-robins 
came  round  again,  and  as  if  these  flowers  were  positively 
of  ill  omen  to  Guy  and  Pauline,  Mrs.  Grey  suddenly  took 
it  into  her  head  again  that  they  were  seeing  too  much  of 
each  other. 

"I  said  you  could  see  Pauline  every  day,"  she  told  Guy. 
"But  I  did  not  say  all  day." 

"But  I  shall  be  going  away  soon,"  he  said,  "and  it  seems 
a  pity  to  lose  any  of  this  lovely  month." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  right  .  .  .  and  I  did  not  know  you  had 
really  decided  to  go  away  .  .  .  I'm  sure,  yes,  I'm  positive 
I'm  right.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  be  more  like  Margaret  and 
Richard?  .  .  .  They  aren't  together  all  day  long  .  .  .  no, 
not  all  day." 

"But  Pauline  is  so  different  from  Margaret,"  Guy 
argued. 

333 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Yes,  I  know  .  .  .  that's  the  reason  .  .  .  she  is  too  im- 
pulsive. .  .  .  Yes,  it's  much  better  not  to  be  together  all 
the  time.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  you've  settled  to  go  to  London  .  .  . 
then  perhaps  you  can  be  married  next  year.  .  .  ." 

A  rule  came  into  force  again,  and  Guy  began  to  feel 
the  old  exasperation  against  the  curb  upon  youth's  leis- 
ure. Rather  unjustly  he  blamed  Margaret,  because  he 
felt  that  the  spectacle  of  her  sedate  affection  made  his 
for  Pauline  appear  too  wild,  and  Pauline  herself  beside 
Margaret  seem  completely  distraught  with  love. 

It  pleased  Guy  rather,  and  yet  in  a  way  it  rather  an- 
noyed him,  that  Michael  Fane  should  choose  this  moment 
to  announce  his  intention  of  spending  some  time  at 
Plashers  Mead.  Perhaps  a  little  of  the  doubt  was  visible 
in  his  welcome,  because  Michael  asked  rather  anxiously 
if  he  were  intruding  upon  the  May  idyll;  Guy  laughed  off 
the  slight  awkwardness  and  asked  why  Michael  had  not 
yet  managed  to  get  married.  They  talked  about  the  evils 
of  procrastination,  but  Guy  could  not  at  all  see  that 
Michael  had  much  to  complain  of  in  a  postponement  of 
merely  two  months.  His  friend,  however,  was  evidently 
rather  upset,  and  he  could  not  resist  expatiating  a  little  on 
his  own  grief  with  what  Guy  thought  was  the  petulance 
of  the  too  fortunate  man.  The  warm  May  nights  lulled 
them  both,  and  they  used  to  pass  pleasant  evenings  lean- 
ing over  the  stream  while  the  bats  and  fern-owls  flew  across 
the  face  of  the  decrescent  moon;  yet  for  Guy  all  the  beauty 
of  the  season  was  more  than  ever  endowed  with  intoler- 
able fugacity. 

Pauline  with  Michael's  arrival  began  to  be  moody 
again;  would  take  no  kind  of  interest  in  Michael's  en- 
gagement; would  only  begin  to  see  again  the  endless  de- 
lays that  hung  so  heavily  round  their  marriage.  Michael 
was  not  at  all  in  the  way,  for  he  spent  all  the  time  writing 
to  his  lady-love,  of  whom  he  had  told  Guy  really  nothing; 
or  he  would  sit  in  the  lengthening  grass  of  the  orchard 
and  read  books  of  poetry,  the  pages  of  which  used  to  wink 

334 


ANOTHER    SPRING 

with  lucid  reflections  caught  from  the  leaves  of  the  fruit- 
trees  overhead. 

Guy  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  saw  that  he  was  read- 
ing "The  Statue  and  the  Bust": 

So  weeks  grew  months,  years;    gleam  by  gleam 

The  glory  dropped  from  their  youth  and  love, 
And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a  dream; 

"That  poem  haunts  me,"  exclaimed  Guy,  with  a 
shudder. 

Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm, 

The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm — 

Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine? 

"And  yet  I  can't  stop  reading  it,"  he  sighed. 

How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 

What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

On  this  Summer  morning  the  words  wrote  themselves 
in  fire  across  his  brain. 

"They  light  the  way  to  dusty  death,"  he  muttered,  over 
and  over  again,  when  he  had  left  Browning  to  Michael 
and  flung  himself  face  downward  in  the  orchard  grass. 

In  despair  of  what  a  havoc  time  was  making  of  their 
youth  and  their  love,  that  very  afternoon  he  begged  Pau- 
line to  meet  him  again  now  in  these  dark  nights  of  early 
Summer,  now  when  soon  he  would  be  going  away  from 
her. 

"Going  away?"  she  echoed  in  alarm.  "I  suppose 
that's  the  result  of  your  friend's  visit." 

335 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

Guy,  however,  was  not  going  to  surrender  again,  and 
he  insisted  that  when  a  month  had  passed  he  would  in- 
deed be  gone  from  Flashers  Mead.  It  was  nothing  to 
do  with  Michael  Fane;  it  was  solely  his  own  determina- 
tion to  put  an  end  to  his  unprofitable  dalliance. 

"But  your  poems?  I  thought  that  when  your  poems 
were  published  everything  would  be  all  right." 

"Oh,  my  poems!"  he  scoffed.    "They're  valueless!" 

"Guy!" 

"They're  mere  decoration.    They  are  trifles." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"I  care  for  nothing  but  to  be  married  to  you.  For 
nothing,  do  you  hear?  Pauline,  everything  is  to  be  sub- 
ordinate to  that.  I  would  even  write  and  beg  my  father 
to  take  me  as  a  junior  usher  at  Fox  Hall  for  that.  We 
must  be  married  soon.  I  can't  bear  to  see  Richard  and 
Margaret  sailing  along  so  calmly  and  quietly  towards 
happiness." 

In  the  end  he  persuaded  her  to  make  all  sorts  of  oppor- 
tunities to  meet  him  when  no  one  else  knew  they  were 
together.  Even  once  most  recklessly  on  a  warm  and 
moonless  night  of  May's  languorous  decline  to  June,  he 
took  her  in  the  canoe  far  away  up  the  river;  and  when 
they  floated  home  dawn  was  already  glistening  on  the 
banks  and  on  the  prow  of  their  ghostly  canoe.  Through 
bird-song  and  rosy  vapors  she  fled  from  him  to  her  silent 
room,  while  he  stood  in  a  trance  and  counted  each  dewy 
footstep  that  with  silver  traceries  marked  her  flight  across 
the  lawn. 


ANOTHER    SUMMER 


JUNE 

MICHAEL  FANE  stayed  on  into  June,  and  the  fancy 
came  to  Pauline  that  he  knew  of  these  meetings  with 
Guy  at  night.  It  enraged  her  with  jealousy  to  think 
that  he  might  have  been  taken  into  Guy's  confidence  so 
far,  and  the  prejudice  against  him  grew  more  violent  every 
day.  She  already  had  enough  regrets  for  having  given 
way  to  Guy's  persuasion,  and  the  memory  of  that  last 
return  at  dawn  to  her  cool,  reproachful  room  haunted 
her  more  bitterly  when  she  thought  of  its  no  longer  being 
a  secret.  The  knowledge  that  Guy  was  soon  going  to 
leave  Flashers  Mead  was  another  torment,  for  though 
in  a  way  she  was  glad  of  his  wanting  to  make  the  deter- 
mined effort,  she  could  not  help  connecting  the  resolve 
with  his  friend's  visit,  and  in  consequence  of  this  her  one 
desire  was  to  upset  the  plan.  The  sight  of  Richard  and 
Margaret  progressing  equably  towards  their  marriage  early 
in  August  also  made  her  jealous,  and  she  began  unreason- 
ably to  ascribe  to  her  sister  an  attitude  of  superiority  that 
she  allowed  to  gall  her;  and  whenever  Richard  was 
praised  by  any  of  the  family  she  could  never  help  feeling 
now  that  the  praise  covered  or  implied  a  corresponding 
disparagement  of  Guy.  With  Monica  she  nearly  quar- 
reled over  religion,  for  though  in  her  heart  it  occupied  the 
old  supreme  place,  her  escapades  at  night,  by  the  tacit 
leave  they  seemed  to  give  Guy  to  presume  that  religion 
no  longer  counted  as  her  chief  resource,  had  led  her  for 
the  first  time  to  make  herself  appear  outwardly  indiffer- 
ent. In  fact,  she  now  dreaded  going  to  church,  because 
she  felt  that  if  she  once  surrendered  to  the  holy  influence 

339 


PLASHERS    MEAD 

she  would  suffer  again  all  the  remorse  of  the  Winter, 
that  now  by  desperate  deferment  she  was  able  for  a 
little  while  to  avoid.  On  top  of  all  this  vexation  of  soul 
she  was  angry  with  Guy  because  he  seemed  unable  to 
realize  that  they  were  both  walking  on  the  edge  of  an 
abyss,  and  that  all  this  abandonment  of  themselves  to  the 
joy  of  the  fugitive  season  was  a  vain  attempt  to  cheat 
fate.  At  such  an  hour  she  was  naturally  jealous  that  a 
friend's  private  affairs  should  occupy  so  much  of  Guy's 
attention,  when  he  himself  was  walking  blindly  towards  the 
doom  of  their  love  that  now  sometimes  in  flashes  of  hor- 
rible clarity  she  beheld  at  hand.  Guy,  however,  persisted 
in  trying  to  force  Michael  upon  her;  the  jealousy  such  at- 
tempts fostered  made  her  more  passionate  when  she  was 
alone  with  him,  and  this,  as  all  the  while  she  dreadfully 
foresaw,  heaped  up  the  reckoning  that  her  conscience 
would  presently  have  to  pay. 

One  afternoon  she  and  Margaret  and  Monica  went  to 
tea  at  Flashers  Mead,  when  to  her  sharp  annoyance  she 
found  herself  next  to  Guy's  friend.  She  made  up  her  mind 
at  the  beginning  of  the  conversation  that  he  was  criticiz- 
ing her,  and,  feeling  shy  and  awkward,  she  could  only  re- 
ply to  him  in  gasps  and  monosyllables  and  blushes.  He 
seemed  to  her  the  coldest  person  she  had  ever  known; 
he  seemed  utterly  without  emotion  or  sympathy;  he 
must  surely  be  the  worst  friend  imaginable  for  Guy.  He 
took  no  interest  in  anything,  apparently;  and  then  sud- 
denly he  definitely  revealed  himself  as  the  cause  of  Guy's 
ambition  to  conquer  London. 

"I  think  Guy  ought  to  go  away  from  here,"  he  was 
saying.  "I  told  him  when  he  first  took  this  house  that 
he  would  be  apt  to  dream  away  all  his  time  here.  You 
must  make  him  give  it  up,  Miss  Grey.  He's  such  an 
extraordinarily  brilliant  person  that  it  would  be  terrible 
if  he  let  himself  do  nothing  in  the  end.  Of  course,  he's 
been  lucky  to  meet  you,  and  that's  kept  him  alive,  but 
now  he  ought  to  go  to  London.  He  really  ought." 

340 


ANOTHER    SUMMER 

Pauline  hated  herself  for  the  way  in  which  she  was 
gasping  out  her  monosyllabic  agreement  with  all  this; 
but  she  did  not  feel  able  to  argue  with  Michael  Fane. 
He  disconcerted  her  by  his  air  of  severe  judgment,  and 
however  hard  she  tried  she  could  not  contradict  him. 
Then  suddenly  in  a  rage  with  herself  and  with  him,  she 
began  to  talk  nonsense  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  rattling 
on  until  her  sisters  looked  up  at  her  in  surprise,  while 
Michael,  evidently  embarrassed,  scarcely  answered.  At 
last  the  uncomfortable  visit  came  to  an  end,  and  as  she 
walked  back  with  Guy,  while  the  others  went  in  front, 
she  began  to  inveigh  against  the  friend  more  fiercely 
than  ever. 

"My  dear,  I  can't  think  why  you  have  him  to  stay  with 
you.  He  hates  your  being  engaged  to  me  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  Guy  interrupted,  rather  crossly. 

"He  does,  he  does;  and  he  hates  your  staying  down 
here.  He  says  Flashers  Mead  is  ruining  you,  and  that 
you  ought  to  go  to  London.  Now,  you  see,  I  know  why 
you  want  to  go  there." 

"Really,  Pauline,  you're  talking  nonsense.  I'm  going 
to  London  because  I'm  positive  that  your  father  and 
mother  both  think  I  ought  to  go.  And  I'm  positive  my- 
self that  I  ought  to  go.  I've  been  wrong  to  stay  here  all 
this  time.  I've  done  nothing  to  help  forward  our  mar- 
riage. Look  how  nervous  and  .  .  .  how  nervous  and  over- 
wrought you've  become.  It's  all  my  fault." 

"How  I  hate  that  friend  of  yours!" 

Guy  looked  up  in  astonishment  at  the  fervor  of  her 
tone. 

"And  how  he  hates  me,"  she  went  on. 

"Oh,  really,  my  dear  child,  you  are  ridiculous,"  Guy 
exclaimed,  petulantly.  "Are  you  going  to  take  up  this 
attitude  towards  all  my  friends?  You're  simply  horridly 
jealous,  that's  the  whole  matter." 

Pauline  did  not  quarrel  now,  because  she  thought  it 
might  gratify  Michael  Fane  to  see  the  discord  he  had 

341 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

created,  but  she  treasured  up  her  anger  and  knew  that, 
when  later  she  and  Guy  were  alone,  she  would  say  what- 
ever hard  things  now  rested  unsaid.  Next  morning  Guy 
asked  her  if  she  would  be  very  cross  to  hear  that  he  was 
going  to  town  for  a  night. 

"With  your  friend?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded,  and  she  turned  away  from  him  clouded 
blue  eyes. 

"It  is  unfair  of  you  to  hate  Michael,"  he  pleaded.  "I 
told  him  you  thought  he  was  cold,  and  he  said  at  once, 
'Do  tell  her  I'm  not  cold,  and  say  how  lovely  I  think  her.' 
He  said  you  were  very  lovely  and  strange  ...  a  fairy's 
child." 

Still  Pauline  would  not  turn  her  head. 

"I  told  him  that  you  were  indeed  a  fairy's  child,"  Guy 
went  on,  "and  I  told  him  how  sometimes  I  felt  I  should 
go  off  my  head  with  the  responsibility  your  happiness  was 
to  me.  For  indeed,  Pauline,  it  is,  it  is  a  responsibility." 

She  felt  she  must  yield  when  Guy  spoke  like  that,  but 
then,  unfortunately,  he  began  to  talk  about  his  friend 
again,  and  sullen  jealousy  returned. 

"Listen,  Pauline,  I'm  going  up  to  town  because  Michael 
wants  me  to  see  this  girl  he  is  going  to  marry.  He  was 
rather  pathetic  about  her.  It  seems  that .  .  .  well .  .  .  it's 
a  sort  of  misalliance,  and  his  people  are  angry  about  it, 
and  really  I  must  be  loyal  and  go  up  to  town  and  help 
him  with  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  you  see,  really  all  his  friends  have 
been  unsympathetic  about  her." 

"I  expect  they've  every  right  to  be,"  said  Pauline. 

"I  do  think  you're  unreasonable.  I'm  only  going  away 
for  a  night." 

"Oh,  go,  go,  gol"  she  cried,  and,  pulling  herself  free  of 
his  caress,  she  left  him  by  the  margin  of  the  stream  dis- 
consolate and  perplexed. 

Pauline,  when  Guy  had  gone  to  London  with  his  friend, 
began  to  fret  herself  with  the  fear  that  he  would  not  come 
back,  and  she  was  very  remorseful  at  the  thought  that  if 

342 


ANOTHER   SUMMER 

he  did  not  she  would  be  responsible.  She  half  expected 
to  get  a  letter  next  day  to  tell  her  of  his  determination  to 
remain  in  town  for  good,  and  when  no  letter  came  she 
exaggerated  still  more  all  her  fears  and  longed  to  send  him 
a  telegram  to  ask  if  he  had  arrived  safely,  railing  at  her- 
self for  having  let  him  leave  her  without  knowing  where 
he  was  going  to  stay.  By  the  following  afternoon  all  the 
jealousy  of  Michael  had  been  swallowed  up  in  a  passion- 
ate desire  for  Guy's  return,  and  when  about  three  o'clock 
she  saw  him  coming  through  the  wicket  in  the  high  gray 
wall  her  heart  beat  fast  with  relief.  She  said  not  a  word 
about  Guy's  journey,  nor  did  she  even  ask  if  his  friend 
had  come  back  with  him.  She  cared  for  nothing  but  to 
show  by  her  tenderness  how  penitent  she  was  for  that 
yesterday  which  had  torn  such  a  rent  in  the  perfection 
of  their  love.  Guy  was  visibly  much  relieved  to  find 
that  her  jealous  fit  had  passed  away,  and  when  she  asked 
for  an  account  of  his  journey  he  gave  it  to  her  most  eagerly. 

"Yesterday  was  rather  tragic,"  he  said.  "We  went  to 
see  this  Lily  Haden  to  whom  Michael  had  engaged  him- 
self, and  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  it's  impossible  to  explain  to  you 
what  happened,  but  it  was  all  very  horrible  and  rather 
like  a  scene  in  a  French  play.  Anyhow,  Michael  is  cured 
of  that  fancy,  and  now  he  talks  of  going  out  of  England 
and  even  of  becoming  a  monk.  These  extraordinary  re- 
ligious fads  that  succeed  violent  emotion  of  an  utterly 
different  kind!  Personally  I  don't  think  the  monkish 
phase  will  survive  the  disillusionment  that's  just  as  much 
bound  to  happen  in  religion  as  it  was  bound  to  happen 
over  that  girl." 

"What  was  she  like?"  Pauline  asked,  resolving  to  ap- 
pear interested  in  Michael. 

"I  never  saw  her,"  said  Guy.  "The  tragedy  took  place 
'off'  in  the  Aristotelian  manner." 

"Oh,  Guy,  don't  use  such  long  words." 

"Dear  little  thing,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  ask  any  more 
about  this  girl.  She  is  something  quite  outside  your 

343 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

imagination;  though  I  could  make  of  her  behavior  such 
a  splendid  lesson  for  you,  when  you  think  you  have  be- 
haved dreadfully  in  escaping  from  your  room  for  an  hour 
or  two  of  moonlight.  Poor  Michael!  he's  as  scrupulous 
as  you  are,  and  it's  rather  ironical  that  you  and  he 
shouldn't  get  on.  Puritans,  both  of  you!  Now  there's 
another  friend  of  mine,  Maurice  Avery,  whom  you'd 
probably  like  very  much,  and  yet  he  isn't  worth  Michael's 
little  finger.'* 

"Did  you  see  him  yesterday?" 

"Yes,  we  went  round  to  his  studio  in  Grosvenor  Road. 
Oh,  my  dear,  such  a  glorious  room,  looking  out  over  the 
river  right  into  the  face  of  the  young  moon  coming  up 
over  Lambeth.  A  jolly  old  Georgian  house.  And  at  the 
back  another  long,  low  window  looking  out  over  a  sea 
of  roofs  to  the  sunset  behind  the  new  Roman  cathedral. 
There  were  lots  of  people  there,  and  a  man  was  playing 
that  Brahms  sonata  your  mother  likes  so  much.  Pauline, 
you  and  I  simply  must  go  and  live  in  Chelsea  or  West- 
minster, and  we  can  come  back  to  Plashers  Mead  after 
the  most  amazing  adventures.  You  would  be  such  a 
rose  on  a  London  window-sill,  or  would  you  then  be  a 
tuft  of  London  Pride,  all  blushes  and  bravery?" 

"Bravery!  Why  I'm  frightened  to  death  by  the  idea 
of  going  to  live  in  London!  Oh,  Guy,  I'm  frightened  of 
anything  that  will  break  into  our  life  here." 

"  But,  dearest,  we  can't  stay  at  Wychford  for  ever  doing 
nothing.  Read  'The  Statue  and  the  Bust'  if  you  want  to 
understand  the  dread  that  lies  cold  on  my  heart  some- 
times. Think  how  already  nearly  twenty  months  have 
gone  by  since  we  met,  and  still  we  are  in  the  same  position. 
We  know  each  other  better,  and  we  are  more  in  love  than 
ever,  but  you  have  all  sorts  of  worries  at  the  back  of  your 
mind,  and  I  have  all  sorts  of  ambitions  not  yet  fulfilled. 
Michael  has  at  last  managed  to  make  a  complete  ass  of 
himself,  but  what  have  I  done?" 

"Your  poems  .  .  .  your  poems,"  she  murmured,  de- 

344 


ANOTHER    SUMMER 

spairingly.  "Are  your  poems  really  no  use?  Oh,  Guy, 
that  seems  such  a  cruel  thing  to  believe." 

Guy  talked  airily  of  what  much  more  wonderful  things 
he  was  going  to  write,  and  when  he  asked  Pauline  to  meet 
him  this  very  midnight  on  the  river  she  had  to  consent, 
because  in  the  thought  that  he  appeared  to  be  drifting 
out  of  reach  of  her  love  she  felt  half  distraught  and  would 
have  sacrificed  anything  to  keep  him  by  her. 

The  June  evening  seemed  of  a  sad,  uniform  green,  for 
the  blossom  of  the  trees  was  departed  and  the  borders 
were  not  yet  marching  in  Midsummer  array.  There  was 
always  a  sadness  about  these  evenings  of  early  June,  a 
sadness,  and  sometimes  a  threat  when  the  wind  blew  loudly 
among  the  young  foliage.  Those  gusty  eves  were  almost 
preferable  to  this  protracted  and  luminous  melancholy  in 
which  the  sinking  crescent  of  the  moon  hung  scarcely  more 
bright  than  ivory.  The  pensive  beauty  was  too  much  for 
Pauline,  who  wished  that  she  could  shut  out  the  obstinate 
day  and  read  by  candle-light  such  a  book  as  Alice  in 
Wonderland  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  Her  white 
fastness,  rose-bloomed  by  sunset  as  she  dressed  for  din- 
ner, reproached  her  intention  of  abandoning  its  shelter 
to-night,  and  she  determined  that  this  should  really  be 
the  last  escapade.  There  was  no  harm  in  what  she  had 
done,  of  course,  as  Guy  assured  her,  and  yet  there  was 
harm  in  behaving  so  traitorously  towards  that  narrow 
white  bed,  towards  pious,  wide-eyed  Saint  Ursula  and 
Tobit's  companionable  angel. 

The  languor  of  the  evening  was  heavy  upon  all  the 
family;  Monica  was  the  only  one  who  had  the  energy  to 
go  to  her  instrument.  She  played  Chopin,  and  the  au- 
sterity of  her  method  made  the  ballads  and  the  nocturnes 
more  dangerously  sweet.  Gradually  the  melodies  lulled 
most  of  Pauline's  fears  and  charmed  her  to  look  forward 
eagerly  to  the  velvet  midnight  when  she  with  Guy  beside 
her  would  float  deep  into  such  caressing  glooms.  After 
Monica  had  played  them  all  into  drowsiness,  Pauline  had 
23  345 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

to  wait  until  the  last  sound  had  died  away  in  the  house 
and  the  illumination  of  the  last  window  had  faded  from 
the  bodeful  night  that  was  stroking  her  window  with  in- 
vitation to  come  forth. 

Twelve  o'clock  clanged  from  the  belfry,  and  Pauline 
opened  her  bedroom  door  to  listen.  She  had  put  on  her 
white  frieze  coat,  for  although  the  night  was  warm,  the 
wearing  of  such  outdoor  garb  gave  a  queer  kind  of  pro- 
priety to  the  whole  business,  and  at  the  far  end  of  the 
long  corridor  she  saw  herself  in  the  dim  candle-light  mir- 
rored like  a  ghost  in  the  Venetian  glass.  From  the  heart 
of  the  house  the  cuckoo  calling  midnight  a  minute  or  two 
late  made  her  draw  back  in  alarm,  and  not  merely  in 
alarm,  but  also  rather  sentimentally,  as  if  by  her  action 
she  were  going  to  offend  that  innocent  bird  of  childhood. 
She  wondered  why  to-night  she  felt  so  sensitive  before- 
hand, since  usually  the  regret  had  followed  her  action; 
but  promising  herself  that  to-night  should  indeed  be  the 
last  time  she  would  ever  take  this  risk,  she  crept  on  tip- 
toe down  the  stairs. 

In  the  glimmering  starshine  Pauline  could  see  Guy 
standing  by  the  wicket  in  the  high  gray  wall,  a  remote 
and  spectral  form  against  the  blackness  all  around  him, 
where  the  invisible  trees  gathered  and  hoarded  the  gloom. 
She  sighed  with  relief  to  find  that  the  arms  with  which 
so  gently  he  enfolded  her  were  indeed  warm  with  life. 
Her  passage  over  the  lawn  had  been  one  long  increasing 
fear  that  the  shape,  so  indeterminate  and  motionless,  that 
awaited  her  approach,  might  not  be  Guy  in  life,  but  a 
wan  image  of  what  he  had  been,  a  demon  lover,  a  shadow 
from  the  cave  of  death. 

"Guy,  my  darling,  my  darling,  it  is  you!  Oh,  I  was  so 
frightened  that  when  I  came  close  you  wouldn't  really  be 
there." 

She  leaned  half  sobbing  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Pauline,  don't  talk  so  loud.  I  only  did  not  come  across 
the  lawn  to  meet  you  for  fear  of  attracting  attention." 

346 


ANOTHER   SUMMER 

"Let  me  go  back  now,"  she  begged,  "now  that  I've: 
seen  you." 

But  Guy  soon  persuaded  her  to  come  with  him  through 
the  wicket  and  out  over  the  paddock  where  the  grass 
whispered  in  their  track,  until  at  the  sight  of  the  canoe's 
outline  she  lost  her  fears  and  did  not  care  how  recklessly 
she  explored  the  deeps  of  the  night. 

In  silence  they  traveled  up-stream  under  the  vaulted 
willows;  under  the  giant  sycamore  whose  great  roots 
came  writhing  out  of  the  darkness  above  the  sheen  of  the 
water;  under  Wychford  bridge  whose  cold  breath  dripped 
down  in  icy  beads  upon  the  thick  swirl  beneath;  and  then 
out  through  starshine  across  the  mill-pool.  Pauline  held 
her  breath  while  around  their  course  was  a  sound  of  water 
sucking  at  the  vegetation,  gurgling  and  lapping  and 
chuckling  against  the  invisible  banks. 

"The  Abbey  stream?"  murmured  Guy. 

She  scarcely  breathed  her  consent,  and  the  canoe  tore 
the  growing  sedge  like  satin  as  it  bumped  against  the 
slope  of  the  bank.  Pauline  felt  that  she  was  protesting 
with  her  real  self  against  the  part  she  was  playing  in  this 
dream;  but  the  dream  became  too  potent,  and  she  had 
to  help  Guy  to  push  the  canoe  up  through  the  grass  and 
down  again  into  the  quiet  water  beyond.  It  was  much 
blacker  here  on  account  of  the  overhanging  beeches,  but 
continually  Pauline  strained  through  the  darkness  for  a 
sight  of  the  deserted  house,  the  windows  of  which  seemed 
to  follow  with  blank  and  bony  gaze  their  progress. 

"Guy,  let's  hurry,  for  I  can  see  the  Abbey  in  the  star- 
light," she  exclaimed. 

"You  have  better  eyes  than  mine  if  you  can,"  he 
laughed.  "My  sweet,  your  face  from  where  I'm  sitting 
is  as  filmy  as  a  rose  at  dusk.  And  even  if  you  can  see  the 
Abbey,  what  does  it  matter?  Do  you  think  it's  going  to 
run  down  the  hill  and  swim  after  us?" 

Pauline  tried  to  laugh,  but  even  that  grotesque  picture 
of  his  evoked  a  new  terror,  and,  huddled  among  the 

347 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

cushions,  she  sat  with  beating  heart,  shuddering  when  the 
leaves  of  the  great  beech-trees  fondled  her  hair.  She 
looked  back  to  her  own  white  fastness  and  began  to  won- 
der if  she  had  left  the  candle  burning  there;  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  had,  and  that  perhaps  presently,  perhaps 
even  now,  somebody  was  coming  to  see  why  it  was  burn- 
ing. And  still  Guy  took  her  farther  up  the  stream. 
How  empty  her  room  would  look,  and  what  a  chill  would 
fall  upon  the  sister  or  mother  that  peeped  in. 

"Oh,  take  me  back!"  she  cried. 

But  still  the  canoe  cleft  the  darkness  and  now,  emerg- 
ing from  the  cavernous  trees,  they  glided  once  again  into 
starshine  infinitely  outspread,  through  which  with  the 
dim  glister  of  a  snake  the  stream  coiled  and  uncoiled 
itself. 

Guy  grasped  at  the  reeds  and  drew  the  canoe  close 
against  the  bank,  making  it  fast  with  two  paddles  plunged 
into  the  mud.  Then  he  gathered  her  to  him  so  that  her 
head  rested  upon  his  shoulder  and  her  lips  could  meet 
his.  Thus  enfolded  for  a  long  while  she  lay  content. 
The  candle  in  her  room  burned  itself  out  and  nothing 
could  disturb  her  absence,  no  one  could  suppose  that  she 
was  here  on  this  starlit  river.  Scarcely,  indeed,  was  she 
here  except  as  in  the  midway  of  deepest  sleep,  resting  be- 
tween a  dream  and  a  dream.  She  might  have  stayed  un- 
vexed  for  ever  if  Guy  had  not  begun  to  talk,  for  although 
at  first  his  voice  came  softly  and  pleasantly  out  of  the 
night  and  lulled  her  like  a  tune  heard  faintly  in  some  far- 
off  corner  of  the  mind,  minute  by  minute  his  accents  be- 
came more  real;  suddenly,  as  her  drowsed  arm  slid  over 
the  edge  of  the  canoe  into  the  water,  she  woke  and  began 
herself  to  talk  and,  as  she  talked,  to  shrink  again  from  the 
vision  of  her  whole  life  whether  past  or  present  or  to 
come. 

In  this  malicious  darkness  she  wanted  to  hear  more 
about  that  girl  who  had  betrayed  Michael  Fane;  she 
wanted  to  know  things  that  before  she  had  not  even 

348 


ANOTHER   SUMMER 

known  were  hidden.  She  pressed  Guy  with  questions, 
and  when  he  would  not  answer  them  she  began  to  feel 
jealous  even  of  unrevealed  sin.  This  girl  was  the  link 
between  all  those  girls  at  whose  existence  in  his  own  past 
Guy  had  once  hinted.  Michael  Fane  appeared  like  the 
tempter  and  Guy  like  his  easy  prey.  Distortions  of  the 
most  ordinary,  the  most  trifling  incidents  piled  themselves 
upon  her  imagination;  and  that  visit  to  London  assumed 
a  ghastly  and  impenetrable  mysteriousness. 

Guy  vainly  tried  to  laugh  away  her  fancies;  faster 
and  still  faster  the  evil  cohorts  swept  up  against  her, 
almost  as  tangible  as  bats  flapping  into  her  face. 

"Don't  talk  so  loud,"  said  Guy,  crossly.  "Do  remem- 
ber where  we  are." 

Then  she  reproached  him  with  having  brought  her  here. 
She  felt  that  he  deserved  to  pay  the  penalty,  and  de- 
fiantly she  was  talking  louder  and  louder  until  Guy,  with 
feverish  strokes,  urged  the  canoe  down-stream  towards 
home. 

"For  God's  sake,  keep  quiet!"  he  begged.  "What  has 
happened  to  you?" 

That  he  should  be  frightened  by  her  violence  made  her 
more  angry.  She  threw  at  him  the  wildest  accusations, 
how  that  through  him  she  had  ceased  to  believe  in  God, 
to  care  for  her  family,  for  her  honor,  for  him,  for  life 
itself. 

"Pauline,  will  you  keep  quiet?  Are  you  mad  to  behave 
like  this?" 

He  drove  the  canoe  into  a  thorn-bush,  so  that  is  should 
not  upset,  and  he  seized  her  wrist  so  roughly  that  she 
thought  she  screamed.  There  was  something  splendid  in 
that  scream  being  able  to  disquiet  the  night,  and  in  an 
elation  of  woe  she  screamed  again. 

"Do  you  know  what  you're  doing?"  he  demanded. 

She  found  herself  asking  Guy  if  she  were  screaming, 
and  when  she  knew  that  at  last  she  could  hurt  him,  she 
screamed  more  loudly. 

349 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"You  used  to  laugh  at  me  when  I  said  I  might  go  mad," 
she  cried.  "Now  do  you  like  it?  Do  you  like  it?" 

"Pauline,  I  beg  you  to  keep  quiet.  Pauline,  think  of 
your  people.  Will  you  promise  to  keep  quiet  if  I  take 
you  out  of  this  thorn-bush  ?" 

He  began  to  laugh  not  very  mirthfully,  and  that  he 
could  laugh  infuriated  her  so  much  that  she  was  silent 
with  rage,  while  Guy  disentangled  the  canoe  from  the 
thorn-bush  and  more  swiftly  than  before  urged  it  towards 
home. 

When  they  reached  the  grassy  bank  that  divided  the 
Abbey  stream  from  the  mill-pool,  she  would  not  get  out 
of  the  canoe  to  walk  to  the  other  side. 

"I  cannot  cross  that  pool,"  she  said.  "Guy,  don't  ask 
me  to.  I've  been  afraid  of  it  always.  If  we  cross  it  to- 
night, I  shall  drown  myself." 

He  tried  to  argue  with  her.  He  pleaded  with  her,  he 
railed  at  her,  and  finally  he  laughed  at  her,  until  she  got 
out  and  watched  him  launch  the  canoe  on  the  farther  side 
and  beckon  through  the  tremulous  sheen  to  her.  Wildly 
she  ran  down  the  steep  bank  and  flung  herself  into  the 
water. 

"Where  am  I?     Guy,  where  am  I?" 

"Well,  at  present  you're  lying  on  the  grass,  but  where 
you've  been  or  where  I've  been  this  last  five  minutes.  .  .  . 
Pauline,  are  you  yourself  again?" 

"Guy,  my  dearest,  my  dearest,  I  don't  know  why.  .  .  ." 
She  burst  into  tears.  "My  dearest,  how  wet  you  are," 
she  sobbed,  stroking  his  drenched  sleeve. 

"Well,  naturally,"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh.  "Look 
here,  it  was  all  my  fault  for  bringing  you  out,  so  don't  get 
into  a  state  of  mind  about  yourself,  but  you  can't  go  back 
in  the  canoe.  My  nerves  are  still  too  shaky.  I  can  lift 
you  over  the  wall  behind  the  mill,  and  we  must  go  back 
to  the  Rectory  across  the  street.  Come,  my  Pauline, 
you'rs  wet,  you  know.  Oh,  my  own,  my  sweet,  if  I  could 
only  uncount  the  hours." 

350 


ANOTHER    SUMMER 

Pauline  would  never  have  reached  home  but  for  Guy's 
determination.  It  was  he  who  guided  her  past  the  dark 
entries,  past  the  crafty  windows  of  Rectory  Lane,  past 
the  menacing  belfry,  past  the  trees  of  the  Rectory  drive. 
By  the  front  door  he  asked  her  if  she  dared  go  up-stairs 
alone. 

"I  will  wait  on  the  lawn  until  I  see  your  candle  alight," 
he  promised. 

She  kissed  him  tragically  and  crept  in.  Her  room  was 
undisturbed,  but  in  the  looking-glass  she  saw  a  dripping 
ghost,  and  when  she  held  her  candle  to  the  window  an- 
other ghost  vanished  slowly  into  the  high  gray  wall.  A 
cock  crowed  in  the  distance,  and  through  the  leaves  of 
the  wistaria  there  ran  a  flutter  of  waking  sparrows. 


JULY 

WHEN  Guy  looked  back  next  morning  at  what  had 
happened  on  the  river,  he  felt  that  the  only  thing 
to  do  was  to  leave  Pauline  for  a  while  and  give  her  time 
and  opportunity  to  recover  from  the  shock.  He  won- 
dered if  it  would  be  wiser  merely  to  write  a  note  to  an- 
nounce his  intention  or  if  she  had  now  reached  a  point 
at  which  even  a  letter  would  be  a  disastrous  aggravation 
of  her  state  of  mind.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  bear  any 
scene  that  might  approximate  to  that  horrible  scene  last 
night,  and  yet  to  go  away  abruptly  in  such  circumstances 
seemed  too  callous.  Supposing  that  he  went  across  to 
the  Rectory  and  that  Pauline  should  have  another  seiz- 
ure of  hatred  for  him  (there  was  no  other  word  that  could 
express  what  her  attitude  had  been),  how  could  their 
engagement  possibly  go  on?  Mrs.  Grey  would  be  ap- 
palled by  the  emotional  ravages  it  had  made  Pauline  en- 
dure; she  would  not  be  justified,  whatever  Pauline's  point 
of  view,  in  allowing  the  engagement  to  last  a  day  longer. 
It  would  be  surely  wiser  to  write  a  letter  and  with  all  the 
love  he  felt  explain  that  he  thought  she  would  be  happier 
not  to  see  him  for  a  short  while.  Yet  such  a  course  might 
provoke  her  to  declare  the  whole  miserable  business,  and 
the  false  deductions  that  might  be  made  from  her  account 
were  dreadful  to  contemplate.  He  blamed  himself  en- 
tirely for  what  had  happened,  and  yet  he  could  scarcely 
have  foreseen  such  a  violent  change.  Even  now  he  could 
not  say  what  exactly  had  begun  the  outburst,  and  indeed 
the  only  explanation  of  it  was  by  a  weight  of  emotion 

352 


ANOTHER    SUMMER 

that  had  been  accumulating  for  months.  Of  course  he 
should  never  have  persuaded  her  to  come  out  on  the  river 
at  night,  but  still  that  he  had  done  so  was  only  a  technical 
offense  against  convention.  It  was  she  who  had  magni- 
fied her  acquiescence  beyond  any  importance  he  could 
have  conceived.  He  must  thank  religion  for  that,  he  must 
thank  that  poisonous  fellow  in  the  confessional  who  had 
first  started  her  upon  this  ruinous  path  of  introspection 
and  self-torment.  But,  whatever  the  cause,  it  was  the 
remedy  that  demanded  his  attention,  and  he  twisted  the 
situation  round  and  round  without  being  able  to  decide 
how  to  act.  He  realized  how  month  by  month  his  sense 
of  responsibility  for  Pauline  had  been  growing,  yet  now 
the  problem  of  her  happiness  stared  at  him,  brutally  in- 
soluble. What  was  it  Margaret  had  once  said  about  his 
being  unlikely  to  squander  Pauline  for  a  young  man's 
experience?  Good  God!  had  not  just  that  been  the  very 
thing  he  had  nearly  done;  and  then  with  a  shudder,  re- 
membering last  night,  he  wondered  if  he  ought  any  longer 
to  say  "nearly."  He  must  see  her.  Of  course  he  must 
see  her  this  morning,  He  must  somehow  heal  the  injury 
he  had  inflicted  upon  her  youth. 

Pauline  was  very  gentle  when  they  met.  She  had  no 
reproaches  except  for  herself  and  the  way  she  had  fright- 
ened him. 

"Oh,  my  Pauline,  can't  you  forget  it?"  he  begged. 
"Let  me  go  away  for  a  month  or  more.  Let  me  go 
away  till  Margaret  and  Richard  are  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

She  acquiesced  half  listlessly,  and  then  seeming  to  feel 
that  she  might  have  been  cold  in  her  manner,  she  wished 
him  a  happy  holiday  from  her  moods  and  jealousy  and 
exacting  love.  He  tried  to  pierce  the  true  significance  of 
her  attitude,  because  it  held  in  its  heart  a  premonition  for 
him  that  everything  between  them  had  been  destroyed 
last  night,  and  that  henceforth  whatever  he  or  she  did 
or  said  they  would  meet  in  the  future  only  as  ghosts 

353 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

may  meet  in  shadowy  converse  and  meaningless  com- 
munion. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  see  me  when  I  come  back?"  he 
asked. 

"Why,  my  dearest,  of  course  I  shall  be  glad!" 

He  kissed  her  good-by,  but  her  kiss  was  neither  the 
kiss  of  lover  nor  of  sister,  but  such  a  kiss  as  ghosts  may 
use,  seeking  to  perpetuate  the  mere  form  and  outward 
semblance  of  life  lost  irrevocably. 

When  Guy  was  driving  with  Godbold  along  the  Ship- 
cot  road  he  had  not  made  up  his  mind  where  he  would 
go,  and  it  was  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  as  he  stood  in 
the  booking-office,  that  he  decided  to  go  and  see  his 
father,  to  whom  latterly  he  had  written  scarcely  at  all, 
and  of  whom  he  suddenly  thought  with  affection. 

"I've  settled  to  give  up  Flashers  Mead,"  Guy  told  him 
that  night,  when  they  were  sitting  in  the  library  at  Fox 
Hall.  "And  try  and  get  on  the  staff  of  a  paper,"  he 
added  to  his  father's  faint  bow.  "Or  possibly  I  may  go 
to  Persia  as  Sir  George  Gascony's  secretary.  My  friend 
Comeragh  got  me  the  offer  in  March,  but  Sir  George  was 
ill  and  did  not  start." 

"That  sounds  much  more  sensible  than  journalism," 
said  Mr.  Hazlewood. 

"Yes,  perhaps  it  would  be  better,"  Guy  agreed.  "But 
then,  of  course,  there  is  the  question  of  leaving  Pauline 
for  two  years." 

Yet  even  as  he  enunciated  this  so  solemnly,  he  knew  in 
his  heart  that  he  would  be  rather  glad  to  postpone  for 
two  years  all  the  vexations  of  love. 

His  father  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"My  poems  are  coming  out  this  Autumn,"  Guy  vol- 
unteered. 

His  father  gave  some  answer  of  conventional  appro- 
bation, and  Guy  without  the  least  bitterness  recognized 
that  to  his  father  the  offer  of  the  secretaryship  had 
naturally  presented  itself  as  the  more  important  occasion. 

354 


"If  you  want  any  help  with  your  outfit  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  count  on  Persia,"  interrupted  Guy. 
"But  I'll  go  up  to  town  to-morrow  and  ask  Comeragh 
when  Sir  George  is  going." 

Next  day,  however,  when  Guy  was  in  the  train,  he 
began  to  consider  his  Persian  plan  a  grave  disloyalty  to 
Pauline.  He  wondered  how  last  night  he  had  come  to 
think  of  it  again,  and  fancied  it  might  have  been  merely 
an  instinct  to  gratify  his  father  after  their  coolness.  Of 
course,  he  would  not  dream  of  going,  really,  and  yet  it 
would  have  been  jolly.  Yes,  it  would  certainly  have  been 
jolly,  and  he  was  rather  relieved  to  find  that  Comeragh 
was  out  of  town  for  a  week,  for  his  presence  might  have 
been  a  temptation.  Michael  Fane  was  not  in  London, 
either,  so  Guy  went  round  to  Maurice  Avery's  studio  in 
Grosvenor  Road,  and  in  the  pleasure  of  the  company  he 
found  there  the  Persian  idea  grew  less  insistent.  Maurice 
himself  had  just  been  invited  to  write  a  series  of  articles 
on  the  English  ballet  for  a  critical  weekly  journal  called 
The  Point  of  View.  They  went  to  a  theater  together, 
and  Guy  as  he  listened  to  Maurice's  jargon  felt  for  a  while 
quite  rustic,  and  was  once  or  twice  definitely  taken  in 
by  it.  Had  he  really  been  stagnating  all  this  time  at 
Wychford?  And  then  the  old  superiority  which  at  Ox- 
ford he  always  felt  over  his  friend  reasserted  itself. 

"You're  still  skating,  Maurice,"  he  drawled.  "The 
superficial  area  of  your  brain  must  be  unparalleled." 

"You  frowsty  old  yokel!"  his  friend  exclaimed,  laughing. 

"I  don't  believe  I  shall  get  much  out  of  breath,  catch- 
ing up  with  your  advanced  ideas,"  Guy  retorted.  "Any- 
way, this  Autumn  I  shall  come  to  town  for  good." 

"And  about  time  you  did,"  said  Maurice.  "I  say,  mind 
you  send  your  poems  to  The  Point  of  View,  and  I'll  give 
you  a  smashing  fine  notice  the  week  after  publication." 

Guy  asked  when  Michael  was  coming  back. 

"He's  made  a  glorious  mess  of  things,  hasn't  he?" 
said  Maurice. 

355 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     Not  necessarily." 

"Well,  I  admit  he  found  her  out  in  time.  But  fancy 
wanting  to  marry  a  girl  like  that.  I  told  him  what  she 
was,  and  he  merely  got  furious  with  me.  But  he's  an 
extraordinary  chap  altogether.  By  the  way,  when  are 
you  going  to  get  married?" 

"When  I  can  afford  it,"  said  Guy. 

"The  question  is  whether  an  artist  can  ever  afford  to 
get  married." 

"What  rot  you  talk." 

"Wiser  men  than  I  have  come  to  that  conclusion,"  said 
Maurice.  "Of  course  I  haven't  met  your  lady-love;  but 
it  does  seem  to  me  that  your  present  mode  of  life  is  bound 
to  be  sterile  of  impressions." 

"I  don't  go  about  self-consciously  obtaining  impres- 
sions," said  Guy,  a  little  angrily.  "I  would  as  soon  search 
for  local  color.  Personally  I  very  much  doubt  if  any  im- 
pressions after  eighteen  or  nineteen  help  the  artist.  As 
it  seems  to  me,  all  experience  after  that  age  is  merely 
valuable  for  maturing  and  putting  into  proportion  the 
more  vital  experiences  of  childhood.  And  I'm  not  at 
all  sure  that  there  isn't  in  every  artist  a  capacity  for  de- 
velopment which  proceeds  quite  independently  of  exter- 
nals. I  speculate  sometimes  as  to  what  would  be  the 
result  upon  a  really  creative  temperament  of  being 
wrecked  at  twenty-two  on  a  desert  island.  I  say  twenty- 
two  because  I  do  count  as  valuable  the  academic  influence 
that  only  begins  to  be  effective  after  eighteen." 

"And  what  is  your  notion  about  this  literary  Crusoe?" 
asked  Maurice. 

"Well,  I  fancy  that  his  work  would  not  suffer  at  all,  that 
it  would  ripen,  just  as  certain  fruit  ripens  independently 
of  sun,  that  he  would  display  in  fact  quite  normally  the 
characteristic  growth  of  the  artist." 

"But  where  would  he  obtain  his  reaction?"  Maurice 
asked. 

"From  himself.  If  that  isn't  possible  for  some  people  I 
356 


ANOTHER   SUMMER 

don't  see  how  you're  going  to  make  a  distinction  between 
literature  and  journalism." 

"Some  journalism  is  literature." 

"Only  very  bad  journalism,"  Guy  argued.  "The 
journalistic  mind  experiences  a  quick  reaction,  the  crea- 
tive writer  a  very  slow  one.  The  journalist  is  affected  by 
extremes;  and  he  is  continually  aware  of  the  impression 
they  are  making  at  the  moment;  contrariwise,  the  creative 
artist  is  always  unaware  of  the  impression  at  the  moment 
it  is  made;  he  feels  it  from  within  first,  and  it  develops 
according  to  his  own  characteristics.  Let  me  give  you 
an  example.  The  journalist  is  like  a  man  who,  seeing  a 
mosquito  in  the  act  of  biting  him,  claps  his  hand  down 
and  kills  it.  The  creative  artist  isn't  aware  of  having 
been  bitten  until  he  sees  the  swelling  .  .  .  big  or  small, 
according  to  his  constitution.  It  is  his  business  to  cure 
the  swelling,  not  to  bother  about  the  insect." 

"Your  theories  may  be  all  right  for  great  creative 
artists,"  said  Maurice.  "And  I  suppose  you're  willing 
to  take  the  risk  of  stagnation?" 

"I'm  not  a  great  creative  artist,"  said  Guy,  quickly. 
"At  the  same  time  I'm  damned  if  I'm  a  journalist.  No, 
the  effect  of  Flashers  Mead  on  me  has  been  to  make  me 
long  to  be  a  man  of  action.  So  far  it  has  been  stimulat- 
ing, and  without  external  help  I've  been  able  to  reach  the 
conclusion  that  my  poems  were  never  worth  writing.  .  .  . 
I  wrote  because  I  wanted  to;  I  don't  believe  I  ever  had 
to." 

"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  asked  Maurice. 

"I'm  probably  going  to  work  in  London  at  journalism." 

"Then,  great  Scott!  why  all  this  preliminary  tirade 
against  it?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  to  bluff  myself  into  thinking 
that  I'm  going  to  do  anything  but  be  a  strictly  pro- 
fessional writer,"  said  Guy.  "Or  else  perhaps  because 
I  don't  really  want  to  come  and  live  in  London  at  all, 
but  go  to  Persia.  Dash  it  all,  for  the  first  time  in  my 

357 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

life,  Maurice,  I  don't  know  what  I  do  want,  and  it's  a 
very  humiliating  state  of  affairs  for  me." 

When  Guy  left  the  studio  that  evening  he  came  away 
with  that  pleasant  warming  of  the  cockles  of  the  brain 
that  empirical  conversation  always  gave.  It  was  really 
very  pleasant  to  be  chattering  away  about  aesthetic 
theories,  to  be  meeting  new  people,  and  to  be  infused 
with  this  sense  of  being  joined  up  to  the  motive  force  of 
a  city's  life.  At  his  lodgings  in  Vincent  Square  a  letter 
from  Pauline  awaited  his  return,  and  with  a  shock  he 
realized  half-way  through  its  perusal  that  he  was  reading 
it  listlessly.  He  turned  back  and  tried  to  bring  to  its 
contents  that  old  feverish  absorption  in  magic  pages,  but 
something  was  wanting,  whether  in  the  letter  or  whether 
in  himself  he  did  not  know.  He  came  to  the  point  of 
asking  himself  if  he  loved  her  still  as  much,  and  almost 
with  horror  at  the  question  vowed  he  loved  her  more 
than  ever,  and  that  of  all  things  on  earth  he  only  longed 
for  their  marriage.  Yet  in  bed  that  night  he  thought 
more  of  his  argument  in  the  studio  than  about  Pauline, 
and  when  he  did  think  about  her  it  was  with  a  drowsy 
sense  of  relief.  Vincent  Square  under  the  bland  city 
moon  seemed  very  peaceful,  and  in  retrospect  Wychford 
a  place  of  endless  storms. 

Next  morning  when  Guy  sat  down  to  answer  Pauline's 
letter,  he  found  himself  writing  with  mechanical  fluency 
without  really  thinking  of  her  at  all.  In  fact,  for  the 
moment,  she  represented  something  that  disturbed  the 
Summer  calm  in  London,  and  he  consciously  did  not  want 
to  think  about  her  until  all  this  late  troublous  time  had 
lost  its  actuality  and  he  could  be  sure  of  returning  to  the 
Pauline  of  their  love's  earlier  days. 

These  shuttlecock  letters  were  tossed  backward  and 
forward  between  Wychford  and  London  throughout  the 
rest  of  June  and  most  of  July,  and  sometimes  Guy  thought 
they  were  as  unreal  as  his  own  poetry.  He  spent  his  time 
in  looking  up  old  friends,  in  second-hand  book-shops,  in 

358 


ANOTHER    SUMMER 

the  galleries  of  theaters.  He  did  not  see  Michael  Fane, 
who  wrote  to  him  from  Rome  before  Guy  knew  he  had 
gone  there.  Comeragh,  however,  he  saw  pretty  often, 
and  he  enjoyed  talking  about  politics  nearly  as  much  as 
about  art.  He  met  Sir  George  Gascony,  and  Comeragh 
assured  him  afterwards  that  when  Sir  George  went  out  to 
Persia  in  August  or  September  he  could,  if  he  liked,  go 
with  him.  Guy  put  the  notion  at  the  back  of  his  mind, 
whence  he  occasionally  took  it  out  and  played  with  it. 
In  the  end,  however,  when  the  definite  offer  came  he  re- 
fused it.  This  happened  at  the  end  of  his  visit  to  London 
when  his  money  was  running  out  and  when  he  had  to 
be  going  back  to  Wychford  to  live  somehow  on  credit, 
until  the  Michaelmas  quarter  replenished  his  overdrawn 
account.  Before  he  left  town  he  paid  a  visit  to  Mr. 
Worrall  and  told  him  that  he  wanted  his  poems  to  appear 
anonymously.  In  fact,  if  it  were  not  for  hurting  the 
Rector's  feelings  he  would  have  stopped  their  publication 
altogether. 

At  the  end  of  a  hot  and  dusty  July,  and  about  a  week 
before  the  Lammas  wedding  of  Margaret  and  Richard, 
Guy  came  back  to  Flashers  Mead.  The  immediate  effect 
of  seeing  again  the  place  which  was  now  associated  in  his 
mind  with  interminable  difficulties  was  to  make  him 
resolute  to  clarify  the  situation  once  and  for  all,  to  clarify 
it  so  completely  that  there  could  never  again  be  a  repeti- 
tion of  that  night  in  June.  His  absence  had  been  in  the 
strictest  sense  an  interlude,  and  all  the  letters  which 
marked  to  each  the  existence  of  the  other  had  been  but 
conventional  forms  of  love  and  comfortable  postpone- 
ments of  reality.  When  he  met  Pauline,  Guy  felt  that  he 
met  her  to  all  intents  directly  after  that  dreadful  night, 
with  only  this  difference,  that  owing  to  the  time  they  had 
had  for  repose  he  could  now  say  things  that  six  weeks  ago 
he  could  not  have  said.  He  had  arrived  at  Wychford  for 
lunch,  and  as  a  matter  of  course  they  were  to  be  together 
that  afternoon.  Ordinarily  on  such  a  piping  July  day  he 

359 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

would  have  proposed  the  river  for  their  converse,  and  it 
was  a  sign  of  how  near  at  hand  he  felt  their  last  time  on 
the  river  that  he  proposed  a  walk  instead. 

Guy  was  aware  of  wanting  to  take  Pauline  to  some 
place  that  was  neither  hallowed  nor  cursed  by  past  hours, 
and,  avoiding  familiar  ways,  they  reached  a  barren,  cup- 
shaped  field  shut  off  from  the  road  by  a  spinney  of  firs 
that  offered  such  a  dry  and  draughty  shade  as  made  the 
field  even  in  the  hot  sun  of  afternoon  more  tolerable. 
They  sat  down  on  the  sour  stony  land  among  the  rag- 
wort and  teazles  and  feverfew.  Summer  had  burnt  up 
this  abandoned  pasturage,  and  while  they  sat  in  silence 
Guy  rattled  from  the  rank  umbels  of  fool's-parsley  and 
hemlock  the  innumerable  seeds  that  would  only  profit 
the  rankness  of  another  year. 

"Well?"  he  said  at  last. 

Pauline  looked  at  him  questioningly,  and  he  felt  im- 
patient to  be  sitting  here  on  this  sour  stony  land,  and 
wondered  how  for  merely  this  he  could  have  refused  that 
offer  of  Persian  adventure.  Not  until  now  had  he  realized 
how  much  he  had  been  resenting  the  performance  of  a 
duty. 

"You've  hardly  told  me  anything  about  your  time  in 
London,"  said  Pauline. 

He  looked  at  her  sharply  in  case  this  might  be  a  prelude 
to  jealous  interrogation. 

"There's  nothing  much  to  tell.  I  settled  that  my 
poems  should  appear  anonymously.  I'm  afraid  their 
publication  may  otherwise  do  me  more  harm  than  good." 

"All  your  poems?"  she  asked,  wistfully. 

He  nodded,  impelled  by  a  strong  desire  for  absolute 
honesty,  though  he  would  have  liked  to  except  the  poems 
about  her,  knowing  how  much  she  must  be  wounded  to 
hear  even  them  called  worthless. 

"Then  I've  been  no  good  to  you  at  all?" 

"Of  course  you  have.  Because  these  poems  are  no 
good,  it  doesn't  follow  that  what  I  write  next  won't  be 

360 


ANOTHER    SUMMER 

good.  And  yet  I'm  uncertain  whether  I  ought  to  go  on 
merely  writing.  I'm  beginning  to  wonder  if  I  oughtn't 
to  have  gone  out  to  Persia  with  Gascony?  I  refused  the 
job  because  I  thought  it  would  upset  you.  And  so,  dear- 
est Pauline,  when  next  you  feel  jealous,  do  remember 
that.  Do  remember  that  it  is  always  you  who  come  first. 
Don't  think  I'm  regretful  about  Persia.  I'm  only  won- 
dering on  your  account  if  I  ought  to  have  gone.  It  would 
have  made  our  marriage  in  three  years  a  certainty,  but 
still  I  hope  by  journalism  to  make  it  certain  in  one  year. 
Are  you  glad,  my  Pauline?" 

"Yes,  of  course  I'm  glad,"  she  answered,  without 
fervor. 

"And  you  won't  be  jealous  of  my  friends?  Because 
it's  impossible  to  be  in  London  without  friends,  you 
know." 

"I  told  you  I  should  never  be  enough." 

Guy  tried  not  to  be  irritated  by  this. 

"If  you  would  only  be  reasonable!  I  realize  now  that 
for  me  at  my  age  it's  foolish  to  withdraw  from  my  con- 
temporaries. I  shall  stagnate.  These  two  years  have 
not  been  wasted  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  they  have,"  she  interrupted,  "if  your  poems  are 
not  worth  your  name." 

"Dearest,  these  two  years  may  well  be  the  foundation 
on  which  I  build  all  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"May  they?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  a  desire  for  the  stimulus  of  other 
people  isn't  the  only  reason  for  leaving  Plashers  Mead.  I 
can't  afford  it  here.  My  debts  are  really  getting  impos- 
sible to  manage,  and  unless  I  can  show  my  father  that 
I'm  ready  to  do  anything  to  be  a  writer,  as  I  can't  go  out 
to  Persia,  well  .  .  .  frankly  I  don't  know  what  will  happen. 
I  gave  Burrows  notice  at  Midsummer." 

"You  never  told  me,"  said  Pauline. 

"Well,  no,  I  was  afraid  you'd  be  upset  and  I  wanted 
you  to  have  this  quiet  time  when  I  was  away  .  .  ." 
24  361 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"You  don't  trust  me  any  more,"  she  said. 

"Oh  yes,  I  do,  but  I  thought  it  would  worry  you.  I 
know  my  money  affairs  do  worry  you.  But  now  I  shall 
be  all  right.  I'll  come  down  here  often,  you  know,  and, 
oh,  really,  dearest  girl,  it  is  better  that  I  should  be  in 
London.  So  don't  be  jealous,  will  you,  and  don't  tor- 
ment yourself  about  my  debts,  will  you,  and  don't  think 
that  you  are  anything  but  everything  to  me." 

"I  expect  you'll  enjoy  being  in  London,"  she  said,  slow- 
ly shredding  the  flowers  from  a  spray  of  wild  mignonette. 

"I  hope  I  shall  be  so  busy  that  I  won't  have  time  to 
regret  Wychford,"  said  Guy. 

He  had  by  now  broken  off  all  the  rank  flowers  in  reach, 
and  the  sour  stony  ground  was  littered  with  seeds  and 
pungent  heads  of  bloom  and  ragged  stalks. 

"You'll  never  regret  Wychford,"  she  said.  "Never. 
Because  I've  spoiled  it  for  you,  my  darling." 

She  touched  his  hand  gently  and  drew  close  to  him, 
but  only  timidly;  and  as  she  made  the  movement  a  flight 
of  goldfinches  lighted  upon  the  swaying  thistle-down  in 
the  hollow  of  the  waste  land. 

"Pauline!  Pauline!"  he  cried,  and  would  have  kissed 
her  passionately,  but  she  checked  him: 

"No,  no,  I  just  want  to  lean  my  head  upon  your  shoul- 
der for  a  little  while." 

Above  her  murmur  he  heard  the  rustle  of  the  gold- 
finches' song  in  parting  cadences  upon  the  air,  rising  and 
falling;  and  looking  down  at  Pauline  in  the  sunlight,  he 
felt  that  she  was  a  wounded  bird  he  should  be  cherishing. 


AUGUST 

HTHE  wedding  of  Richard  and  Margaret  dreamed  of 
1  for  so  long  strung  Pauline  to  a  pitch  of  excitement 
that  made  her  seem  never  more  positively  herself.  She 
was  conscious,  as  she  gazed  in  the  mirror  on  that  Lammas 
morning,  that  the  tired  look  at  the  back  of  her  eyes  had 
gone  and  that  in  her  muslin  dress  sown  with  rosebuds  she 
appeared  exactly  as  she  ought  to  have  appeared  in  any 
prefiguration  of  herself  in  bridesmaid's  attire.  Feeling  as 
she  did  in  a  way  the  principal  architect  of  Richard's  and 
Margaret's  happiness,  she  was  determined  at  whatever 
cost  of  dejection  afterwards  to  bring  to  the  completion 
of  her  design  all  the  enthusiasm  she  had  brought  to  its 
conception. 

"Do  you  like  me  as  a  bridesmaid?"  she  asked  Guy. 

And  he,  with  obviously  eager  welcome  of  the  old  Pau- 
line, could  not  find  enough  words  to  say  how  much  he 
liked  her. 

"Richard,  of  course,  is  wearing  a  tail-coat,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"I  sha'n't,"  he  whispered,  "when  we  are  married.  I 
shall  wear  tweeds,  and  you  shall  wear  your  white  frieze 
coat  .  .  .  the  one  in  which  I  first  saw  you.  How  little 
you've  changed  in  these  two  years!" 

"Have  I?  I  think  I've  changed  such  a  lot.  Oh,  Guy, 
such  a  tremendous  lot!" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"My  rose,  if  all  roses  could  stay  like  you,  what  a  world 
of  roses  it  would  be." 

363 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

The  wedding  happened  as  perfectly  as  Pauline  had 
imagined  it  would.  Margaret  looked  most  beautiful 
with  her  slim  white  satin  gown  and  her  weight  of 
dusky  hair,  while  Richard  marched  about  stiff  and 
awkward,  yet  so  radiant  that  almost  more  than  any 
one  it  was  he  who  inspired  the  ceremony  with  hymeneal 
triumph  and  carried  it  beyond  the  soilure  of  unmean- 
ing tears,  he  and  Pauline,  whose  laughter  was  the  ex- 
pression of  the  joyous  air,  since  Margaret  was  too 
deeply  occupied  with  herself  to  cast  a  single  questioning 
look. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  diminished  family  sat  in  the 
drawing-room  without  going  up-stairs  to  music,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  Monica  announced  abruptly  that  at  the 
end  of  the  month  she  was  going  to  be  a  novice  in  one  of 
the  large  Anglican  sisterhoods.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had 
most  deliberately  taken  advantage  of  the  general  reaction 
in  order  that  nobody  might  have  the  heart  to  combat 
her  intention.  Pauline  and  Mrs.  Grey  gasped,  but  they 
had  no  arguments  to  bring  forward  against  the  idea,  and 
when  Monica  had  outlined  the  plan  in  her  most  precise 
manner  they  simply  acquiesced  in  the  decision  as  im- 
mutable. 

That  night,  as  Pauline  lay  awake  with  the  excitement  of 
the  wedding  still  throbbing  in  her  brain,  the  future  from 
every  side  began  to  assail  her  fancy.  It  seemed  to  her 
since  Margaret's  marriage  and  Monica's  decision  to  be  a 
nun  that  she  must  be  more  than  ever  convinced  of  her 
absolute  necessity  to  Guy's  existence.  Unless  she  were 
assured  of  this  she  had  no  right  to  leave  her  father  and 
mother.  No  doubt  at  least  a  year  would  pass  before 
she  and  Guy  could  be  married,  but,  nevertheless,  her  de- 
cision must  be  made  at  once.  He  had  not  seemed  to 
depend  upon  her  so  much  when  he  was  in  London;  his 
letters  had  no  longer  contained  those  intimate  touches 
that  formerly  assured  her  of  the  intertwining  of  their  lives. 
But  it  was  not  merely  a  question  of  letters,  this  attitude 

364 


ANOTHER    SUMMER 

of  his  that  latterly  was  continually  being  more  sharply 
defined.  Somewhere  their  love  had  diverged,  and  whereas 
formerly  she  had  always  been  able  to  comfort  herself  with 
the  certainty  that  between  them  love  was  exactly  equal, 
now  instead  she  could  not  help  fancying  that  she  loved 
him  more  than  he  loved  her.  It  would,  of  course,  be  use- 
less to  ask  him  the  question  directly,  for  he  would  evade 
an  answer  by  declaring  it  was  prompted  by  unreasonable 
jealousy.  Yet  was  her  jealousy  so  very  unreasonable, 
and  if  it  were  unreasonable  was  not  that  another  reason 
against  their  marriage? 

Pauline  tried  to  search  in  the  past  of  their  love  for  the 
occasion  of  the  divergence.  It  must  be  her  own  fault. 
It  was  she  who  had  often  behaved  foolishly  and  im- 
petuously, who  had  always  supposed  that  her  mother  and 
sisters  knew  nothing  about  love,  who  had  been  to  Guy  all 
through  their  engagement  utterly  useless.  It  was  she 
who  had  stopped  his  becoming  a  schoolmaster  to  help 
his  father,  it  was  she  who  had  discouraged  him  from  ac- 
cepting that  post  in  Persia.  As  Pauline  looked  back  upon 
these  two  years  she  saw  herself  at  every  cross-road  in 
Guy's  career  standing  to  persuade  him  towards  the  wrong 
direction. 

Then,  too,  recurred  the  dreadful  problem  of  religion. 
It  was  she  who  had  not  resisted  his  inclination  to  laugh  at 
what  she  knew  was  true.  It  was  she  who  had  most  easily 
and  most  weakly  surrendered,  so  that  it  was  natural  for 
him  to  treat  her  faith  as  something  more  conventional 
than  real. 

The  worries  surged  round  her  like  waves  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  the  one  anchor  of  hope  she  still  possessed  was 
dragging  ominously.  Oh,  if  she  could  but  be  sure  that 
she  was  essential  to  his  happiness,  she  would  be  able  to 
conquer  everything  else.  The  loneliness  of  her  father  and 
mother,  Guy's  debts,  the  religious  difficulties,  the  self- 
reproach  for  those  moonlit  nights  upon  the  river,  the 
jealousy  of  his  friends,  the  fear  of  his  poems'  failure,  his 

365 


PLASHERS   MEAD 

absence  in  London — all  these  could  be  overcome  if  only 
she  were  sure  of  being  vital  to  Guy's  felicity. 

A  dull  Summer  wind  sent  a  stir  through  the  dry  leaves 
of  the  creepers,  but  the  night  grew  hotter  notwithstanding, 
and  sleep  utterly  refused  to  approach  her  room. 

Next  day,  when  Guy  came  round  to  the  Rectory,  Pau- 
line was  so  eager  to  hear  the  answer  to  her  question  that 
she  would  take  no  account  of  the  jaded  spirit  of  such  a 
day  as  this  after  a  wedding,  and  its  natural  influence  on 
Guy's  point  of  view. 

All  the  afternoon,  however,  they  helped  the  Rector  with 
his  bulbs,  and  no  opportunity  of  intimate  conversation 
occurred  until  after  tea  when  they  were  sitting  in  the 
nursery.  The  wind,  that  last  night  had  run  with  slow 
tremors  through  the  leaves,  was  now  blowing  gustily,  and 
banks  of  clouds  were  gathering — great  clouds  that  made 
the  vegetation  seem  all  the  more  dry  and  stale  as  they 
still  deferred  their  drench  of  rain. 

"Guy,  I  don't  want  to  annoy  you,  but  is  it  really 
necessary  that  your  poems  should  appear  without  your 
name?"' 

"Absolutely,"  he  said,  firmly. 

"You  don't  think  any  of  them  are  good?" 

"Oh,  some  are  all  right,  but  I  don't  believe  in  them  as 
I  used  to  believe  in  them." 

"Sometimes,  my  dearest,  you  frighten  me  with  the  sud- 
den way  in  which  you  dispose  of  things.  .  .  .  They  were 
important  to  you  once,  weren't  they?" 

"Of  course.  But  they  have  outlived  their  date.  I 
must  do  better." 

She  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  window-seat,  and 
when  she  spoke  next  she  was  looking  at  the  wicket  in  the 
high  gray  wall. 

"Guy,  could  I  outlive  my  date?" 

"Oh,  dearest  Pauline,  I  do  beg  you  not  to  start  prob- 
lems this  afternoon !  Of  course  not." 

"Are  you  sure?  Are  you  sure  that  when  you  are  in 

366 


London  you  won't  find  other  girls  more  interesting  than  I 
am?" 

"Even  if  temporarily  I  were  interested  in  another  girl, 
you  may  be  quite  sure  that  she  would  always  be  second 
to  you." 

"But  you  might  be  interested?"  Pauline  asked,  breath- 
lessly. 

"I  must  be  free  if  I'm  going  to  be  an  artist." 

"Free?"  she  echoed,  slowly. 

The  cuckoo  in  the  passage  struck  seven,  and  Mrs.  Grey 
came  into  the  nursery  to  invite  Guy  to  stay  to  dinner. 
All  through  the  meal  Pauline  kept  saying  to  herself, 
"free,"  "free,"  "free,"  and  afterwards  when  her  mother 
suggested  a  trio  in  the  music-room,  because  they  could  no 
longer  have  quartets,  and  because  soon  they  would  not 
even  have  trios,  Pauline  played  upon  her  violin  nothing 
but  that  word  "free,"  "free,"  "free."  In  the  hall,  when 
she  kissed  Guy  good  night,  she  had  impulse  to  cling  to 
him  and  pour  out  all  her  woes;  but,  remembering  how 
often  lately  he  had  been  the  victim  of  her  overwrought 
nerves,  she  let  him  go  without  an  effort.  For  a  little  while 
she  held  the  door  ajar  so  that  a  thin  shaft  of  lamplight 
showed  his  tall  shape  walking  quickly  away  under  the 
trees.  Why  was  he  walking  so  quickly  away  from  her? 
Oh,  it  was  raining  fast,  and  she  shut  the  door.  Up-stairs 
in  her  room  she  wrote  to  him: 

Guy,  you  must  forgive  me,  but  I  cannot  bear  the  strain  of 
this  long  engagement  any  more.  I  will  go  away  with  Miss 
Verney  somewhere  to-morrow  so  that  you  needn't  hurry  away 
from  Flashers  Mead  before  you  intended.  I  meant  to  write 
you  a  long  letter  full  of  everything,  but  there  isn't  any  more 
to  say. 

PAULINE. 

Her  mother  found  her  sobbing  over  her  desk  that  was 
full  of  childish  things,  and  asked  what  was  the  matter. 
"I've  broken  off  my  engagement,"  and  wearily  she  told 

367 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

her  some  of  the  reasons,  but  never  any  reason  that  might 
have  seemed  to  cast  the  least  blame  on  him.  Next 
morning  very  early  came  a  note  for  her  mother  from  Guy, 
in  which  he  said  he  was  leaving  Flashers  Mead  in  a 
couple  of  hours,  and  begged  that  she  would  not  let  Pauline 
be  the  one  to  go  away. 


EPIGRAPH 


GUY 

GUY  could  not  make  the  effort  to  fight  the  doom  upon 
their  love  declared  by  Pauline  in  her  letter.  He  felt 
that  if  he  did  not  acquiesce  he  would  go  mad;  a  deadness 
struck  at  him  that  he  fancied  was  a  wonderful  sense  of 
relief,  and,  hurriedly  packing  a  few  things,  he  went  in 
pursuit  of  his  friend  Comeragh,  in  case  it  might  not  even 
now  be  too  late  to  go  to  Persia.  However,  though 
he  did  not  manage  to  be  in  time  for  Sir  George  Gascony, 
his  friend  secured  him  a  job  on  some  committee  that  was 
being  organized  in  Macedonia  by  enthusiastic  Liberals. 
His  previous  experience  there  was  recommendation 
enough,  and  after  he  had  seen  his  father,  acquired  his 
outfit,  and  settled  up  everything  at  Plashers  Mead  by 
means  of  Maurice  Avery,  early  in  September  he  set  out 
Eastward. 

In  Rome  Guy  picked  up  Michael  Fane,  who  was  on  the 
point  of  starting  for  the  Benedictine  monastery  at  Cava. 
Having  a  few  days  to  spare  before  he  went  on  to  Brindisi, 
he  agreed  to  spend  the  time  with  Michael  tramping  in  the 
sun  along  the  Parthenopean  shore. 

"I  can't  understand  what  consolation  you  expect  to  find 
by  shutting  yourself  up  with  a  lot  of  frowsty  monks,"  said 
Guy,  fretfully. 

"Nor  can  I  understand  when  just  at  the  moment  you 
have  been  dealt  the  blow  that  should  at  last  determine  if 
you  are  to  be  an  artist,"  retorted  Michael — "I  can't  un- 
derstand why  you  choose  that  exact  moment  to  go  and 
be  futile  in  Macedonia." 

371 


FLASHERS    MEAD 

"Do  you  think  I  would  be  an  artist  now,  even  if  I 
could?"  asked  Guy,  fiercely.  "How  I  hate  such  a  point 
of  view.  No,  no;  I  have  made  myself  miserable,  and  I 
have  made  some  one  else  miserable  because  I  thought  I 
wanted  to  be  an  artist.  But  never,  never  shall  that  old 
jejune  ambition  be  gratified  now." 

"You'll  never  try  to  write  anything  more?'* 

"Nothing,"  said  Guy. 

"Then  what  has  all  this  been  for?" 

"Perhaps  to  come  back  in  a  year,  and.  .  .  .    Listen: 

"O  ragged-robins,  you  will  bloom  each  year, 
But  we  shall  never  pluck  you  after  rain: 
For  aye,  O  ragged  hearts,  you  beat  alone, 
And  never  more  shall  you  be  joined  again. 

Do  you  think  I  want  to  come  back  in  a  year  and  still  be 
able  to  versify  my  grief  like  that?  I  look  forward  to 
something  better  than  minor  poetry." 

"You  mean  you  still  hope  .  .  ."  his  friend  began. 

"I  daren't  even  hope  yet  .  .  .  but  all  my  life  I'll  do 
penance  for  having  said  that  an  artist  must  be  free." 

They  had  reached  the  inn  at  Amalfi,  where  letters  might 
be  waiting  for  them. 

Guy  read  aloud  one  which  had  arrived  from  Maurice 
Avery: 

"422  GROSVENOR  ROAD, 
"WESTMINSTER. 

"  MY  DEAR  GUY, — I  settled  up  everything  for  you  at  Flashers 
Mead.  Rather  a  jolly  place.  I  nearly  took  it  on  myself.  I'm 
getting  quite  used  to  settling  up  other  people's  affairs  since  you 
and  Michael  have  made  me  your  executor.  Good  luck  to  you 
in  Macedonia. 

"Last  night  I  went  to  the  Orient  Ballet  and  met  a  perfectly 
delightful  girl.  If  there  is  such  a  thing  as  love  at  first  sight, 
I  am  in  love.  Jenny  Pearl  she  is  called.  Forgive  this  ap- 
parently casual  enthusiasm,  but  you  two  cynics  will  be  able  to 
tear  me  to  pieces  to  your  satisfaction.  I  offer  my  heart  for 
your  bitter  mirth  to  embalm.  Yours  ever,  M.  A. 

372 


EPIGRAPH 

"Your  dog  is  at  God  aiming  with  my  people.  My  sisters  talk 
of  nothing  else. 

"Maurice  rises  like  a  phoenix  from  our  ashes,"  said  Guy, 
grimly. 

"He  was  always  irrepressible,"  Michael  agreed. 

"And  still  you  haven't  answered  my  question  about 
your  monkery,"  Guy  persisted. 

"You  want  action.  I  want  contemplation.  But  don't 
think  that  I'm  going  to  take  final  vows  to-morrow." 

"And  do  you  really  believe  in  the  Christian  religion?" 
Guy  asked,  incredulously. 

"Yes,  I  really  do." 

"What  an  extraordinary  thing!" 

Next  day  they  parted,  Michael  going  to  the  Bene- 
dictine house  at  Cava,  Guy  pressing  on  towards  Salerno. 
With  every  breath  of  the  rosemary,  with  every  sough  of 
the  Aleppo  pines,  with  every  murmur  of  the  blue  Tyr- 
rhenian winking  far  below,  more  and  more  sharply  did  he 
realize  that  what  he  had  thought  at  the  time  was  won- 
derful relief  had  been  more  truly  despair.  Yet  in  a  hap- 
pier September  might  he  not  hope  to  come  back  this  way, 
setting  his  face  towards  England  ? 

One  more  turn  of  the  head  in  the  gathering  gloom 
To  watch  her  figure  in  the    lighted  door: 

One  more  wish  that  I  never  should  turn  again, 
But  watch  her  standing  there  for  evermore. 


PAULINE 

PAULINE  went  away  with  Monica  to  spend  the  rest 
of  August  and  the  beginning  of  September  in  the 
depths  of  the  country,  where,  however,  for  all  the  still- 
ness of  the  ripe  season,  she  did  not  find  very  great  peace. 
In  every  lane,  in  every  wood,  below  the  brow  of  every 
hill,  she  was  always  half  expecting  to  meet  Guy.  It  was 
not  until  Monica  was  going  to  her  sisterhood,  and  that 
she  came  back  to  see  TO  LET  staring  from  the  windows 
of  Flashers  Mead,  that  Pauline  was  able  at  last  to  realize 
what  she  had  irrevocably  done. 

On  the  day  after  her  return  Pauline  went  to  see  Miss 
Verney.  To  her  she  explained  that  the  engagement  was 
at  an  end. 

"I  heard  something  about  it,"  said  Miss  Verney. 
"And  feeling  sure  that  it  was  doubtless  on  account  of 
money,  I  must  very  impertinently  beg  you  to  accept 
this." 

Pauline  looked  at  the  packet  the  old  maid  had  thrust 
into  her  hand. 

"Those  are  deeds,"  said  Miss  Verney,  importantly.  "I 
have  felt  for  some  time  past  that  I  do  not  really  need  all 
my  money.  My  income,  you  know,  is  very  nearly  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year.  One  hundred  pounds 
would  be  ample,  and  therefore  I  hope  you  will  accept  the 
surplus." 

"My  darling  Miss  Verney,"  said  Pauline,  "it  could  not 
be." 

But  the  old  maid  was  with  very  great  difficulty  per- 
suaded of  the  impossibility. 

374 


EPIGRAPH 

"And  you  mean  to  say,"  she  gasped,  "that  you  are 
never  going  to  see  each  other  again  ?" 

"Oh,  sometimes,"  Pauline  whispered — "sometimes  I 
wonder  if  it  could  really  happen  that  Guy  and  I  should 
never  meet  again.  Please  don't  let's  talk  about  it.  I 
shall  come  and  see  you  often,  but  you  mustn't  ever  talk 
about  Guy  and  me,  will  you?" 

"I  shall  put  this  money  aside,"  Miss  Verney  announced, 
"  because  I  am  most  anxious  to  prove  that  one  hundred 
pounds  a  year  is  ample  for  me.  Extravagance  has  always 
been  my  temptation!" 

Later  in  the  afternoon  Pauline  left  her  friend  and 
went  down  Wychford  High  Street  towards  home.  There 
were  great  wine-dark  dahlias  in  the  gardens,  and  the 
bell  was  sounding  for  Evensong.  She  knelt  behind  a 
pillar,  all  of  the  congregation.  How  through  this  Winter 
that  was  coming  she  would  love  her  father  and  mother. 
And  if  Guy  ever  came  back  ...  if  Guy  ever  came  back.  .  .  . 

She  heard  her  father's  voice  dying  away  with  the  close 
of  the  Office;  and  presently  they  walked  about  the 
golden  churchyard,  arm  in  arm. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  see  Sternbergia  lutea  this 
year,"  he  observed.  "We  have  had  a  lot  of  sun." 

"Have  we?"  Pauline  sighed. 

"Oh  yes,  a  great  deal  of  sun." 

Her  father,  of  course,  would  never  speak  of  that  broken 
engagement,  and  already  she  had  made  her  mother 
promise  never  to  speak  of  it  again.  Deep  to  her  inmost 
heart  only  these  familiar  vales  and  streams  and  green 
meadows  would  speak  of  it  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 


THE   END 


Capri 
December,  z(H4-~-April,  1915 


,.l£f.?.U.™.™  REGIONAL  LIBRAR 


A     000102809 


